


To Honor Her Father

by Vermilion_Sunrise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Love, POV Sandor Clegane, POV Sansa Stark, Sandor as Lord of the West, Sandor in a kilt, Seduction, Sex, Smut, Virginity, Westeros, hubba hubba
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-04-24 14:48:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 46,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14357697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vermilion_Sunrise/pseuds/Vermilion_Sunrise
Summary: Westerosi A/U:  There has long been a saying in the Westerlands: When the wolves come back to this land, they will bring with them a peace and prosperity unlike anything we have ever seen. They will tame Man and forge a balance between them. Sandor Clegane had never been much for old wives' tales, fairy tales or anything of the like. Yet he couldn't help but find the irony in this superstition as he got back on his horse. The war with the North and the Riverlands had gone on long enough. Now he would bring a wolf into the Westerlands, and find himself fulfilling this prophecy. He didn't know if she would bring peace or even prosperity, what he did know was that he was in for a fight.A snippet from this story ;-)





	1. To Honor Her Father

**Author's Note:**

> Usually I find it bad form to publish a story before I have a good idea of how it will go and/or end. This story I am putting out there with the hope that you in the community can give me some inspiration.
> 
> Themes: Sansa doing her duty. Sandor as the Hound that must be tamed. How to forge a love to an arranged marriage to your father's enemy? Seduction on both sides. Smut...as if you expected anything different from me at this point. Behold the power of the vagina ;-)
> 
> The story will be from both perspectives. I'm missing that umpf factor. Enjoy!

#  **Chapter 1: News from the West**

##  **Sansa**

 

Dark wings flew over Winterfell and Sansa felt her chest tighten at the thought of what they could mean. There was war in the Westerlands, battles that had raged for nearly a decade, and of course Lord Eddard Stark was in the thick of it. Her father was an excellent military commander, but it seemed the Westerlanders had one as formidable as he. They had been locked in a protracted war over land, influence and peasants. The West had been the aggressor, moving through the Riverlands and pushing northward. It had never been clear what had brought on this change of the status quo, be it a lesser Lord testing the boundaries of his influence or a diplomatic dispute that had tumbled wildly out of control. Regardless of how it had started, the war had weighed heavily on both sides. Sansa knew it was only a matter of time before the ravens brought word of her father’s death, or of another brother’s. Robb had fallen in battle not two years before. Sansa’s uncle in the Riverlands had capitulated in the meantime, increasing the anger and tension in the Stark household toward their western opponents.

 

_ ‘Please don’t be dead.’ _ Sansa whispered to herself as she made her way across the courtyard of Winterfell and into the castle. After so many years one would have thought Sansa’s heart would have hardened at the thought of death. The only mechanism capable of keeping her sane, the only to move on from this bloodshed, had eluded her. Sansa had lost many friends and acquaintances over the years, for every one of them she mourned. It was as if the gods were dead, both the old and the new. 

 

Relieved her other siblings had not seen the raven, Sansa crept up the winding stairs to where she knew her mother would be, hoping to get the information as soon as her mother did. She wanted no delay in knowing what was going on. She was a woman grown after all, her eighteenth name day had only recently passed, it was time she start taking on responsibilities as such. By the time Sansa made it to her mother’s rooms, she could see her mother’s face had turned white, she was clutching the note to her breast.

 

“Mother?” Sansa asked, knowing that her voice was filled with questions she was too scared to ask. 

 

Catelyn Stark motioned her daughter to her, giving her a huge hug. “No sweetling, your father marches home. The war is over.” But there was a sadness and distance in her voice, a longing in her mother’s eyes that said so much more than she did.

 

For as happy as the news was, Sansa felt no relief. There was something hanging over them, something her mother wouldn’t say, or perhaps couldn’t say. 

 

“Then what is it that has you so sad?” Sansa pleaded.

 

“When your father returns, there will be much to discuss.” Caetlyn said ominously, holding her daughter close.

 

Not able to shake this feeling of apprehension, Sansa hugged her mother back. She didn’t have the courage to ask what was happening, to dig further into the cost this peace may have come at. She gripped her mother closer to her, hoping her father would provide her answers that her mother would not.

 

It was two weeks later that Lord Eddard Stark returned to Winterfell, but with more than Sansa, or any of her siblings, had expected. It was not only his armies following him back to their home, but a small garrison of men from the West who escorted him to the castle. It was strange to see them so far North, their tartan kilts an unusual style of dress, their woolen socks pulled high to their knees, their brown leather boots battle worn. Sansa observed the captain at the front of the garrison. He had a long section of kilt thrown over his shoulder, his light leather armor visible across part of his chest and arms. There were many tales told in the North about men from the West, in truth she’d never seen one in the flesh, let alone a whole garrison. 

 

Old Nan had certainly not been wrong about their size. These soldiers on horses were broad shouldered, large swords secured to their hips. Their faces were impassive, scary almost with red and blue colored face paint in the shape of hands or smears. The fierceness of the Westerlanders was legendary, known to fight to the last man with a strength and courage that struck fear in the hearts of even the most seasoned soldiers. Yet here, in her home, they seemed rather out of place. Sansa could hear the stable boys sniggering at their exotic dress, not the least bit concerned one might jump off their horse and snatch him up. 

 

_ ‘They must be freezing.’ _ She thought to herself, though they showed no discomfort. 

 

There was something both quaint and barbaric about their look. Most of the peoples of Westeros had adapted their customs and style of dress to a more common fashion, but not the Westerlanders. Or so Sansa had heard. It wasn’t difficult to picture these men fighting, their swords, axes and hammers swinging through the air in such clothes. Yet their stoic faces were a testament to being hardened to empathy or remorse -- then it hit her.

 

_ ‘Is father a prisoner?’ _ Sansa wondered, trying to understand why these men, who were their sworn enemies, would dare to come into their castle. Why they would stay atop their horses while her father dismounted, a somewhat uncomfortable smile across his face. Though Sansa did notice the eye of the presumed captain of this garrison move to her then quickly dart back ahead.

 

_ ‘Curious.’ _ Sansa thought.

 

As was his custom, Sansa’s father embraced her mother tightly, kissing her. Then the younger children and finally Sansa. There was a look in his eyes she didn’t trust, something that changed when his eyes finally met hers. Her father looked older somehow, more haggard and worn that he had just four months ago when she had last seen him. Finally he hugged Sansa, as if it would be his last. He felt warm against her, alive and healthy, at least that was something.

 

“Come child, we have some things to discuss. I will not wait any longer to do so.” He looked at his master of arms, “Get these men some food and a place to sleep. See that they are not harassed.” Lord Stark then put his hand on Sansa’s back as he lead her into the castle, her mother in tow. 

 

There was no denying the sinking feeling that was filling the pit of Sansa’s stomach. She sat down at a small table and put her hands in her lap, waiting for him to start talking. The longer the silence stretched on, the more her nervousness took hold. What concerned Sansa the most, was that her father didn’t know where to begin, it was like he was stopping and starting not able to find the proper words. It unnerved her.

 

“My love.” He began. “I…”

 

“Yes father?” Her voice was higher than usual, the tension in it spilling over into the room. Sansa could see her mother’s face strain a bit at her words.

 

Inhaling deeply, Lord Stark remained standing, keeping his eldest daughter in view. “I’ve had some talks with Lord Clegane of the Westerlands and we’ve made a peace arrangement.”

 

Sansa took a breath, the uneasiness of the tone of the conversation crept into her body. Father would never discuss such matters with her personally. Perhaps with her mother as they sat by the fire late at night, but never with her. Somehow Sansa instinctively knew what he would say, but hoped he would not find the courage to do so.  

 

Taking a few paces toward her, he continued. “In order to seal this peace, to make it long standing, we’ve decided that a marriage is needed.”

 

Tears immediately began to roll down Sansa’s face. Sandor Clegane was the enemy, a killer and a barbarian. She could not contain her anger and betrayal at what his words insinuated. The red flush of pure anger flooded through her neck and cheeks, her blood began to boil. 

 

_ ‘How could he? How could he trade me off to a...to a...monster!’ _  It did not fit with the father she knew, the father she trusted.

 

“Sansa.” He urged, putting his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “He’s a man of ten and twenty. He is strong and capable. I am certain Lord Clegane will not let any harm come to you”

 

She could see he was lying, there was something in his grey eyes that told her as much, but she just wasn’t sure exactly  _ what _ he was lying about. At this realization her tears began to fall harder. “He’s a warlord father! He’s an animal!” She took a moment to suck in some breath, “How could you?” 

 

Sansa did not know the Lord of the Westerlands at all, she had never met him, had not heard much about him. He was a lesser lord, not from a Great House like hers. Then there were the stories the men brought back from war. All of them said he was ruthless and calculating. A formidable opponent with little mercy.  _ ‘How can I be promised to a man like that?’ _

 

“I would rather be dead!” She screamed, not wanting to leave the warmth and comfort of her home. Sansa could hear her mother gasp, see her father’s rising anger at her unwillingness to follow his will. 

 

His voice grew louder. “You will do as you are bid child. You leave tomorrow with the garrison to escort you to his castle.” 

 

Her father could see the fury boiling up inside her, just to the explosion point. “You will not dishonor me Sansa. You will be his wife and you will give him as many children as he desires.”

 

“I hate you!” Sansa screamed, her face a mess of tears and matted hair. 

 

She flew out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Hugging herself she ran through the castle to her room and threw herself on her bed. There she cried harder than she had cried when she received word that Robb had been killed. Her sobs were loud, her body shaking, all the emotions contained inside her pouring out.

 

“I will not, I won’t...I can’t.” She began to loose resolve as her strength became less, her tears zapping her energy. Deep down she knew her father would not go back on his word. He was a man of  _ hono _ r after all, be it in governing, making war or making peace. Though today he seemed to be honoring his enemy and not his family, she hated him.

 

Sansa didn’t know when sleep had taken her, or how long she had spent laying across her bed, belly down. All she knew that it was dark outside her window as the maid knocked on her bedroom door and brought in a bathtub. The other maids then followed, bringing in bucket after bucket of hot water. Sansa’s mother scuttled into the room in between them, making her way to her daughter on the bed. She must have looked a fright, half asleep, full of dried tears and exhausted.  But her mother didn’t seem to notice. There was something in her mother’s eyes that was hopeful, more hopeful than they had been two weeks ago as she had received news from her father. The very news Sansa heard today for the first time.

 

“Leave us.” Sansa’s mother said to the maids once their job had been completed. 

 

There was an odd mix of shame and sadness that Sansa felt as she looked judged her mother’s demeanor. She had let her down today by yelling at her father and refusing his orders. Sansa could read that in her mother’s face. Without a word her mother went to undress her and help her in the bath. There was a long and heavy silence between them as Sansa reclined in the large tub, her mother brushing and washing her long red hair. 

 

“I was angry the day my father told me that he had promised me to Lord Eddard Stark.” She began, doing her best to sound conversational. Sansa breathed in, on edge.

 

Catelyn Stark continued, “I didn’t know him at all. I just knew that his older brother, to whom I had been betrothed, had been murdered...then just like that my whole world changed.”

 

Sansa turned her head in order to see her mother’s face. She had not known that her mother had been betrothed to another, particularly not to her father’s older brother. 

 

Seeing she had an opportunity to speak further, her mother continued. “Oh yes, I had met Brandon Stark very young. Both of our parents were in agreement the match was good and I was overjoyed at the prospect of marrying a man that loved me.”

 

Sansa had not taken her eyes off of her mother, but she didn’t say anything either. Eager for her mother to get to the point. “After he was killed, I mourned him deeply, found pain and sorrow in his loss. The night my father told me I was to wed his younger brother, Eddard…” Catelyn paused and snorted a bit, with the same bit of flare that Sansa had, “...well I just didn’t agree with him, and I told him so.”

 

“But mother,” Sansa began turning in the tub now to better look at the older woman, “my father was not an enemy, not some kind of barbarian killer stealing land that does not belong to him.”

 

At this her mother smiled, “What was Robert’s rebellion then? Had your father and his friends lost, the Seven only know what would have happened to me or you...all of us.”

 

Confusion crossed Sansa’s face. “I do not know him, mother. I have never seen him.  How can I possibly love him?”

 

Caetlyn looked at her daughter, a deep love in her eyes. “Sansa my dear daughter. Do you remember what I told you all those years ago as you were a little girl angry that your brothers got to do things you didn’t?”

 

Sansa nodded and they spoke together, “Male children are for waging war, female children are for ensuring a lasting peace.” A tear ran down Sansa’s cheek as they spoke, the realization that this was indeed her duty becoming more clear.

 

Her mother continued, “There’s another part to that. A part I didn’t tell you.”

 

Sansa looked intently at her mother, a woman she held very dear to her heart. 

 

“It is often overlooked how much of a war we women can wage, child. Any young man with a sword and a bit of strength can run out into a field and fight a war. But it takes courage and poise to walk into the house of an enemy and quite his rage, gentle his soul and challenge him to be more than a warlord...but to be a ruler.”

 

Sansa considered this for a moment, still unsure of what to say. She did have a duty to honor her father’s promise and to seal the agreement he had reached with Lord Clegane. That didn’t mean she was thrilled about it, or that she wanted it. Her head had been, until recently, filled with ideas of noble princes and knights who treated ladies with honor and respect. To have this come tumbling down so quickly, to fall away around her left Sansa bare and exposed, scared and very much alone.

 

Catelyn Stark looked into her daughter’s eyes. “You will accomplish something that neither your uncle Edmure nor your father could, you will bring Sandor Clegane to peace. Domesticate him into a man worthy of the respect of the other lords of Westeros. Build a Great House together.” 

 

A long deep sigh escaped Sansa’s chest. Her mother did always have a better way of explaining things, of getting her to do what she wanted. Though, she seemed to know more than she was letting on. 

 

“Do you know something of him mother? Did father say anything at all?” Sansa’s curiosity was tempered with a nervousness, the hope to hear something that might make this whole situation better. That he was the most handsome man her father had ever seen, or perhaps the most chivalrous. 

 

Her mother smiled broadly and hugged Sansa’s head close. “Well…” she trailed off a moment playfully, “these men of the West are known for their prowess in the bedroom.” Her mother had a devilish grin.

 

“Mother!” Sansa squeaked, turning red just at the thought of having sex. 

 

“You are a woman grown now, so you must get used to it.” Her mother teased. “There is much pleasure to be found in copulation, but only once a man feels like he’s earned it.”

 

Sansa looked at her mother a moment, not quite sure what she was trying to tell her. Caetlyn started again, “He is a fighter my daughter, a commander. A man like that only feels like he has earned something when he has the sense he has conquered it.”

 

A smile crept across her mother’s face, one Sansa had never seen before. “Tease him child, show him that you have the strength of the wolf in you. Bring him to his knees.”

 

“Oh I’m not so sure I’m much of a Stark mother.” Sansa said, turning her face away.

 

“That’s not true. You’re more a Stark than you know. You are brave and beautiful...show him your strength, make him work to win your favor. In that, you will win his heart and affections.”

 

Sansa hugged her mother close, “Ok mother I will. I will be ready to depart tomorrow morning, to make the trip to the Westerlands … and start the rest of my life.”  She wasn’t fully committed to this idea, but at least her mother had instilled the feeling of power in her. A feeling that, even when faced with a great warrior, she had some weapons of her own -- that she was not as helpless as she felt.

 

Kissing her atop the head, her mother left the room, leaving Sansa to soak in her warm water. It was difficult to fall asleep that night, but Sansa promised herself not to shed a further tear. Even though her head was filled with knights and princes, of ladies who hosted lavish balls with singing and dancing; this would remain what it always had been, a fairy tale. What she was living was real life, and this would be so much more different than what she could have ever imagined. But she would do it, she would go, give herself to a man she did not know. She would do it to honor her father -- she would do it to build a lasting peace.


	2. The Wife He Never Wanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor rides into a peace negotiation and comes out of it with the promise of a highborn wife.

#  Chapter 2: The Wife He Never Wanted

##  Sandor

 

Stranger was uneasy, snorting loudly and flicking his tail angrily as Sandor dismounted in his enemy’s war camp. The animal could sense the tension in the air, had killed some Northmen himself … the taste of their blood surly still fresh in his war horse’s mouth. Fingering the hilt of his sword, Sandor walked through the camp alone, drawing the scowls and evil eyes of his long standing enemies. He had chosen to come here without his escort, confident in the fact that his reputation preceded him. A smirk crossed his face as he made his way through the muck, he stood a whole head and shoulders above these men. His reputation did seem to strike fear in the camp by the way some cowered. Sandor towered over them. He had been invited here, his safe passage assured, yet his senses were heightened, his instincts screaming for him to unsheathe his sword. But he didn’t.

 

This invitation had come at a moment in which Sandor held all the power, at a time in which his armies were squeezing the North. It was not difficult to have respect for Lord Eddard Stark, his sworn enemy. The man was almost as good a military commander as he was a fighter. Almost being the key word. 

 

_ ‘Is the old man wise enough to know when he’s been beaten? To give me what I want?’ _ Sandor mulled over what he indeed did want, the realization only now hitting him that he hadn’t considered exactly _ how _ he would negotiate with the Great Lord of the North. Clearly more lands, more influence and riches to split amongst his most loyal soldiers would be a priority. Westermen had little interest in wealth in the sense that other Westerosi had, being mostly a clan society. But sharing the spoils of war amongst the chiefs was expected, and Sandor saw no harm in it. He was their leader and he kept faith with those traditions.

 

A dry smirk crossed Sandor’s face as the Northmen of the camp stepped aside to allow him to come through. These people were far different from his own, not just in dress but also in tradition. They couldn’t stop staring at him, though Sandor had a pretty good idea why. His battle kilt, in a tartan of yellow and black, hung to his knees. It was covered in brownish, rust colored splotches -- blood long dried from a recent battle. The fabric came across his massive chest and was tucked into his back under his sword belt. His armor was light, not the metal pots and pans that fought him from the North. It allowed him more freedom of movement, flexibility and room to breath. He was a barbarian to them, and he couldn’t care less.

 

_ ‘Keep staring you little pricked fuckers. _ ’ He grinned to himself.

 

Of course, Sandor also knew they were staring at his face. Disfigured by his brother as a child, he had been happy that Gregor had sold out his own peoples and took up residence with the Lannisters - the Great Lords of the South. Sandor didn’t play their games, nor did he want to fully bend the knee. He had carried on his father’s war, kept out of the Lannister’s business and that had been enough to content him. 

 

He knew the Northerners regarded his people as nothing more than chattel, to be used as they pleased. This was evident in how they slaughtered farming families, kept Western prisoners and treated Western women, like dogs. Sandor couldn’t call himself much of a ruler, more of a tribal leader who was first amongst equals -- not more than one step above a peasant. Yet he could not forgive how the Northmen treated his people, this was what had motivated him to continue the fight -- as ruthlessly as possible.

 

Sandor dipped down to enter Lord Stark’s tent, a table stood at its center with the older man seated on the other side. He rose to shake Sandor’s hand, an odd Northern custom, and then motioned he sit down. 

 

_ ‘Shorter than I thought.’ _ Sandor mused as he took a seat, the chair creaking under his enormous weight.

 

There were many tales about the Lord of the North, that he was a good and honest man. This meant nothing to Sandor, Lord Stark still ate, shat, fucked and killed like any other man in this camp. There was no reason to bend to this man’s will just based on a title or a long standing bloodline.

“Lord Clegane, I assume you know why I have asked you here.” Ned began. Sandor could see that it was difficult for him to say, certainly to admit to himself that he had been bested by a younger lesser Lord.

 

Sandor leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, not caring that he’d flashed his whole cock and balls before Lord Stark’s eyes as he did it. He had time, no need to rush anything. 

 

“I can’t say that I do.” Sandor made no effort to downplay his accent when he spoke the common tongue, he might be in Lord Stark’s tent, but they were on  _ his _ lands.

 

Clearly Lord Stark was put off by the whole display, but Sandor didn’t care. “I’ve asked you here to offer a truce. To end this war on mutually beneficial terms.”

 

A barking laughter come from Sandor’s lips, “Why the fuck would I want to do that when I’m winning?”

 

The older man cleared his throat. “Because if we continue this war we will both be weak, weak enough to lure another more powerful Lord to engage us.” 

 

Sandor considered this idea a moment, coming to the conclusion that Lord Stark was not wrong. If Sandor were to expand his territory all the way to the Wall, he would be spread thin, it would be difficult to rule. Weakness always brings with it those who would impress their will upon them.

 

“I’m listening.” Sandor said.

 

“My offer of peace would be rather straightforward.” The older man was uncomfortable as he proceeded, as if he were in slight physical pain. “You will withdraw your troops to the end of the Riverlands.”

 

At this Sandor rolled his eyes and snorted. Lord Stark continued, “Then we would do well to join our houses in marriage.” There Lord Stark’s words began to falter slightly.

 

_ ‘He’s offering me a fucking Lady wife. One of his sweet and loved daughters.’  _ This was not what Sandor had expected, not at all.  _ ‘I’ve beaten him already. He looks defeated.’  _

Sandor’s grandfather had been a kennel master, had received lands and a title from the Lannisters for saving the life of Lord Tytos Lannister. But that made them still only one step above a commoner, a little richer than the rest of the tribes in their lands with a bit more respect. This offer, however, changed things - it changed everything.

 

Lord Stark couldn’t take the silence anymore, “A Great House is made by joining a lower one with an established one.”

 

Sandor didn’t need to be lectured on the ways Great Houses were formed, he was still focused on the idea of a wife. He had never thought much of marriage, found women cumbersome at best. Though now, as he considered this rather tantalizing offer, Sandor did his best to calculate the benefits. Perhaps having a sweet, soft Northern woman in his bed every night wouldn’t be so bad, particularly when you could smile at the fact that you were making your sworn enemy’s daughter scream your name at night. Of course it meant more power and influence, and who knew perhaps he or his offspring would even inherit the North one day.

 

_ ‘Oh and I’d make her scream alright.’  _ Sandor smirked sheepishly to himself at the thought of fucking a Stark girl. He had heard of the daughters of Lord Stark, knew they were as different as night and day. Sandor already knew which one he wanted, and would not be made a fool.

 

“Which daughter are you proposing?” Sandor asked, curious as to what the high lord in front of him would say. 

 

Lord Stark looked even more pained as he considered the question. Sandor could tell it hurt the high lord to offer his daughter to a dog such as himself, just that fact was almost enough to make him accept on the spot. 

 

Sandor was growing impatient, “I want the pretty red headed one.”  

 

He’d always had a thing for beautiful women, probably because they were unattainable, because he was a glutton for punishment or because he liked the challenge of seduction. Either way, if he was going to sleep with the enemy at least she could look pretty.

 

“Sansa.” Lord Stark breathed, a sadness crossing his face. Lord Stark glared a moment continuing, “Yes, Sansa has red hair like her mother. She is one of the most beautiful young women in Westeros, I assure you.”

 

Sandor laughed, a satisfied smile crossing his scarred face, “She’ll hate me you know. Pretty girls want pretty knights and I am neither.” 

 

“She will do her duty.” Lord Stark answered, clearly uncomfortable with talking about his daughter as if she were a broodmare. “She will provide you many strong sons.”

 

There was never any thought in Sandor’s mind that she wouldn’t give him children one way or another, whether because she wanted to or through force. He hoped the former, he had no interest in having resentment in his bed. In the West men cherished their women, put them first, did all that they could to pleasure them. He’d seen the North men fucking women before, found it barbaric that they neglected to put their mouths between a woman’s legs, or even tease her until she was wet and ready for them. They just fucked them as if they weren't there, that was barbaric to any Westerman, particularly Sandor. 

 

_ ‘They probably teach their women nothing about sex. She’ll come to me a maiden … and she’ll probably be prissy too.’ _ The thought made Sandor’s cock twitch. If he loved anything it was a good challenge, anything different from the normal. Certainly she would come to him all clammed up, legs clenched together, a beautiful redheaded flower for him to pluck open. 

 

Sandor smiled. “I will send a small garrison of my perosnal soliders to escort you home and to bring Lady Sansa to my Keep as insurance. Once she is with me, I’ll remove my troops as discussed.”

 

“She’ll come as what?” At this Lord Stark slammed both of his hands on the table and stood up. “I’m a man of my word.”

 

Sitting up straight in the chair, Sandor narrowed his eyes slightly, his temper building. “Just so. You have men on my lands too. As long as I have her, you’ll be more eager to remove them quickly.” ‘Sandor paused, watching Lord Stark’s face turn flush, “I’ll marry her once they are gone.”

 

“But it will take me until spring.” The older man argued. “It’s improper.”

 

“Aye.” Sandor answered, his eyes burning through his enemy.

 

“You must give me your word Lord Clegane,” Lord Stark demanded, “That you will not bed her before your marriage in the spring. I need time to move my men and settle my affairs.”

 

At this Sandor grinned confidently, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I give you my word that I will not force myself upon your sweet innocent daughter before we are wed in the eyes of the Seven. But…” his final word hung heavy in the air as Lord Stark’s face contorted into something akin to disbelief. “...if she comes into my bed willingly. If she begs me to claim her sooner, I will not deny her. There is no law in the Westerlands to prevent it. She will not judged for it.”

 

“You wouldn’t dare! She is a maiden and knows nothing of the marriage bed.” Lord Stark exclaimed.

 

“We Westermen are known for our skills with women.” He could see the color rising in Lord Stark’s face. 

 

“We enjoy to indulge them in whatever sexual pleasures they desire.” Sandor grinned knowing he was getting on Lord Stark’s nerves, the way he was clenching his fists a clear indication of that. “I will respect your rules Lord Stark, but you should respect mine. To have her lay with me willingly is as good as marriage to us in the West.”

 

“And what if you lose your nerve?” Lord Stark began, raising his voice. “I will not have my daughter’s virtue ruined just to warm your bed in the dead of winter. Then to be thrown out come spring.”

 

At that Sandor smiled broadly. “You’ll have to trust I am not a scoundrel if this peace, and this marriage are to work.” His eyes were cold steel, assessing his opponent. “If she is as beautiful as you say, I will not tire of her. I can assure of that.”

 

There was a glint in Sandor’s eye that told the father across from him that he was intent on bedding his daughter as soon as possible. There was a certain arrogance about it that Sandor didn’t mind having, he liked to rile the older man up -- keep him on his toes. He could see that Lord Stark was both fuming and considering what he had just said, a glare on his face. 

 

“I’ll expect her to arrive in no more than three weeks. If I get nothing, I will show no mercy as I move my armies North.” Sandor said a firmness in his voice.

 

It was a short time for her to make it to his Keep. It would take Lord Stark nearly two weeks to return home to Winterfell, but that wasn’t his problem. Sandor knew if the man wanted peace he would make it work.

 

Seeing as the Northern Lord was not answering him  Sandor got up and began to walk to the exit. “You will treat her well, won’t you Clegane?” Came the father’s final plea.

 

Sandor turned, looked at Lord Stark and just grinned. He knew it would give the older man this mixed sense, anger him further and make him reconsider his offer.  _ ‘I’ll treat her right old man, of that you can be sure.’  _

 

Without a word Sandor left. 

 

As he walked through the camp his mind ablaze. He didn’t even know what a wife needed or what she would like.  _ ‘My Keep is no place for a woman. It never was.’ _

 

The last woman who had lived there had been his mother, and she was long dead. Her pain and anguish at his older brother’s exploits had killed her. It had driven a stake through Sandor’s heart. The whole situation had, however, made him rethink ever wanting a woman. While most men had settled down with a wife and had started a family by the time they were Sandor’s age, he had avoided it all together. Deciding to focus on continuing his father’s war, on reclaiming lost land. If he had to be completely honest with himself, Sandor had never wanted a wife, only seeking out female companionship on demand. Even that had its limits.

 

Now Lord Stark was vying for his domestication and it was a strange feeling.  _ ‘A proper fucking lady wife.’ _ Sandor pondered again, almost laughing at the idea. 

 

Sandor found his horse and grabbed its reigns. His head was swimming with the idea of what had just happened. Then, he had a sudden flashback to his childhood, of something his mother had once told him something most children in the Westerlands grew up hearing. There has long been a saying in the Westerlands: When the wolves come back to this land, they will bring with them a peace and prosperity unlike anything we have ever seen. They will tame Man and forge a balance between them. Sandor Clegane had never been much for old wives' tales, fairy tales or anything of the like. Yet he couldn't help but find the irony in this superstition as he got back on his horse. The war with the North and the Riverlands had gone on long enough. Now he would bring a wolf into the Westerlands, and find himself fulfilling this prophecy. He didn't know if she would bring peace or even prosperity, what he did know was that he was in for a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sandor in a kilt....I must haz what's under there ;-)


	3. A Not So Subtle Game of Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa goes through all the various degrees of fear, acceptance and anger at her situation as she rides to the Westerlands. Her first meeting with Sandor Clegane, is far from what she expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank everybody who weighed in on this story and gave me some themes and more direction. There are still some unclear patches, but I may now slowly be working on a series of events to make this story interesting.
> 
> Also, I'm out for 3 weeks on holiday, so everything is put on pause until I am back. I will (hopefully) finalize another chapter on the War of Southern Occupation before I get on a plane. Cheers!

#  Chapter 3: A Not So Subtle Game of Seduction

##  Sansa

 

She left first thing in the morning, half a garrison of Westermen to escort her to Clegane Keep. Sansa’s mother had embraced her and reminded her that she would come to no harm. That didn’t seem to abade Sansa’s fears much as she rode through the countryside. The other half of the garrison was bringing up the rear, Sansa’s father thought it fit to send a Maester to the castle as well. With all of his books, drawings and potions, it would take much longer than the time limit Lord Clegane had set for them to make it with the wagon.

 

_ ‘He doesn’t even have a Maester? I bet he can’t even read.’  _ Sansa’s heart sank at the very real fear of having a barbarian for a husband. Some warlord intent on chaos, killing and taking his fill of her whenever he wished. 

 

_ ‘A terrible existence.’  _ She told herself.  _ ‘I’d rather be dead than be the whore of some animal. I’ll kill myself if it comes to that.’  _ She didn’t know if she actually did have the guts follow through on her threat, but it made her feel better as she did her best to keep pace with the wild men in front of her. 

 

The Westermen were relentless in the pace they set with their horses, stopping only briefly to eat and to make water behind the trees -- their eyes always open for the possibility of attacks. They were on edge and it put Sansa on edge too. It was clear to her that they were not comfortable in this part of the countryside, nervous at being in the North. There were moments when Sansa wished that a  big bear would jump out of the woods and eat them all, at least that way she wouldn’t have to endure the debasement of being the wife of a savage. But of course, nothing like that happened.

 

_ ‘I will give it one chance.’  _ She promised herself, ‘ _ One chance to do as mother said. To gentle him, to make him think of settling down. If not...then..’ _ Sansa didn’t even want to think about it. Besides her thighs were burning from a long day’s ride, her arms tired from holding the reigns of her mare. She was thankful when they stopped right as dusk had begun to fall. The men of the garrison were talking amongst themselves and looking at her. She had no idea what they were saying or even what they were thinking, just that it made her feel uncomfortable. 

 

The only sounds she could make out, because they seemed to be repeated a lot were, “ Marcaiche-eich,” and “Falt ruadh.” Even that made no sense to her.

 

Sansa dismounted her horse tentatively and found herself the center of attention. Fear began to grip her as she did not know what their current intentions with her actually were. 

 

_ ‘They probably haven’t seen a woman in months.’ _ She realized, feeling something drop in the pit of her stomach. She had no weapons, nothing to defend herself or her virtue. Her annoyance at the situation turned very quickly to fear, then to dread.

 

In that moment the captain of the guard barreled through the group with a tent roll and some other things Sansa did not recognize in his arms. Some of the men helped him put together a small tent, threw a bed roll in there and a fur. Then smiling the captain of the guard, a man slightly older looking than the others, turned to her and motioned she go inside.

 

_ ‘He doesn’t even speak the common tongue!’ _ Sansa was appalled, but not so appalled as when she realized that he expected her to sleep in this.

 

_ ‘I’m riding at breakneck speed through Westeros and this is what I’m supposed to sleep in?’  _ Realizing she should probably say something, as the men were all staring at her, waiting for some kind of response, Sansa managed a weak smile.

 

This seemed to send the men over the moon, with smiles some jovial sounding phrases. Then they went to their own business, setting up their even more meager bedrolls with no covering at all.

 

_ ‘What kind of a man am I marrying?’ _ she wondered as she ducked into the tent and sat down on the hard bedroll. Tears welled up in Sansa’s eyes, she wasn’t more than a day into this whole ordeal and she already felt overwhelmed and lost. 

 

“I’ll never be able to do this.” She shook her head, then held her face in her hands. Tears were falling at a slow but steady pace.

 

Sansa knew that Sandor Clegane would not be like her father, he would be an entirely different man all together. Even as a Northman Sansa’s father was refined, well read and gentle. She could see that with how he treated her mother, with love and kindness. The West was known to be a wild place, the fighters from there known for their lack of fear and their utter ferociousness. Intelligence, diplomacy and civilization were not things they were known for. Remembering this made it all  worse.

 

There was a bit of movement at her tent flap, then a man’s voice. “Ummm, Laaady...come” Was all he managed to say in his broken, thick accented common tongue. 

 

Sansa poked her head outside the tent to see the captain of the guard smiling at her, pointing to a small fire where the men had begun to roast something they had just caught. At the smell of meat on the fire Sansa’s stomach began to rumble.

 

The Westerman noticed her hesitation and brought a hand to his mouth, to indicate eating. “Come Lady.”

 

They seemed to be the only two words he knew in the common tongue, but he used them to fairly good effect. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to make them mean more than they did on the surface. Sansa stepped outside the tent to the sound of men talking and eating together, nothing so different than what she had observed in in the Great Hall of her home. It was just that they were the sworn enemies of her father, and all wearing skirts. There was something so oddly familiar about the situation though. It was obvious these men, were all close to one another almost like a family. It was inviting and almost heartwarming to watch it from afar, a glimmer of hope in what had been a terrible day.

 

_ ‘Perhaps they are a kind people.’  _ Sansa hoped deeply as she found herself smiling broadly for the first time since her father had returned home from war. At her smile the men hooped and hollered, not caring whether they had food in their mouths or not.

 

_ ‘I do hope Lord Clegane has better table manners.’ _ She smiled to herself as she sat down on a stump, which seemed to have been put there for her, and began to nibble on a bit of rabbit offered to her. 

 

She could tell the men were looking at her but trying hard not to make it obvious. If truth be told, she was looking at them too. Amazed that the harsh war like air they had about them yesterday as they entered Winterfell had vanished within a day’s ride. Here they seemed a little more relaxed, their postures not so stiff. Their swords were still by their sides though, it seemed they would be ready for anything at a moment’s notice.

 

She smiled at the uniform of the men escorting her, they wore kilts of yellow and black tartan, with long socks to protect their legs while riding. It was an odd thing to see men in skirts in Westeros, though she knew that most of the Westermen had not changed from their more barbaric ways. Sansa wondered if her father’s arch enemy would be dressed like this too. All she knew was that the leader of these men, the Lord in the West, was a large man -- tall and fit. So large that the thought of such a man in such dress almost made her giggle outright.

 

Another funny thing was that she could not understand the men when they spoke in their own language. It was a strange and barbaric sounding chatter, rough on the ears. They would often talk to one another, rather sociable compared to Northern people. Then sometimes they would look at her a moment then speak again. She knew they were talking about her, knew that it was only natural for them to do so, but couldn’t shake the feeling that it was so weird.  She was to become the wife of their liege lord, the sacrificial lamb of peace being led to slaughter. There seemed to be much to say about it. 

 

_ ‘How am I ever going to survive there?’ _ She wondered. If she could not understand her new soon-to-be husband, how would they be able to communicate?  _ ‘How can I love a man  if I can’t speak with him?” _

 

Sansa pondered this as she finished her meager, but much appreciated meal, then went to bed. The next few days carried on in a very similar fashion. She rode with the men until her legs turned to jelly, ate with them around the fire to their curious stares and their funny sounding language, fell into bed only to be woken up before the break of dawn the next morning to start all over again.

 

Sansa had never been very far from her home, she had not ventured too far outside the walls of Winterfell. So it was amazing to see how the countryside changed from the North to the Riverlands. To see animals, trees and landscape rise before you, change, then be left behind you as if in a dream. There was something magical and adventurous about it, something that lifted her spirits as they began to ride further and further into unfamiliar territory.

 

That was until they passed Riverrun, her mother’s home. It was as if they had crossed some sort of barrier that went from beautiful, picturesque land, to the destruction imposed by war. Though Sansa had come to feel safe amongst her escort of Westermen over the days, it was hard not to feel her anxiety rise at the sight of the scorched land here. Houses destroyed, crops left uncared for, rivers with floating corpses of both North and Westermen. She had heard much about the war, knew it inside and out but had not had a picture in her head of what war actually did, until now.

 

_ ‘This is why I am going to him.’ _ Sansa could feel an immense sadness well up in her throat, ‘I’m going to prevent this.’

 

It was an all encompassing feeling, the feeling that you had to do something and had no idea where to begin. 

 

_ ‘I have to show him what love is. I have to stop Lord Clegane. If it means I have to give myself to him in body...I will do it.’ _ Her resolve suddenly became stronger to make this work, to have an impact not only on her peoples, but on all the others that had been affected by this war.

 

The garrison pushed forward, through the death and despair stopping rather suddenly at a river called the Red Fork. It was the natural border between the Riverlands and the Westerlands, they were in the home stretch. Before she could blink all the men that had escorted her jumped off their horses, began feverishly to remove their clothing and armor and ran toward the river. Doing her best to maintain her virtue, Sansa tried to turn her head so as not to see their naked bodies, which was nearly impossible because they were running toward the river on all sides of her. 

 

_ ‘I guess they really don’t wear small clothes under their kilts.’ _ She thought to herself as she turned a dark crimson. 

 

She was left in a sea of men’s clothing and swords, atop her mare watching them bath, wrestle and swim in the river. There was a joy in their actions, a relaxed feeling that they were home now and would soon see their families again. At least that was what Sansa read from these actions. They removed their face paint, washed their matted dirty hair, smiled as they tried to best one another in naked river wrestling. 

 

_ ‘They have no shame, none at all.’  _ Sansa blushed feverishly as she saw all of their rather white behinds and all different sizes and shapes of flashes of their manhood around her. But if anything had changed from the beginning of this trip, it was that she trusted these men that she did not feel that they had any ill intentions toward her. 

 

Deciding not to give into her baser desires, Sansa took her horse and went a short way up the river so as not to watch them unnecessarily. The lands of the West, across the river from where they were, were green and open. She understood better why the Westermen were known to be good horsemen, they had free and open lands in which to do this. The hills rolled beautifully, without anything to obstruct it. 

 

_ ‘It’s so different from what I am used to. Everything is.’  _ She took in the fresh air, so many unfamiliar smells that she didn’t know what to think.

 

_ ‘I hope I please him.’ _ She’d been brought up that way, though something in her stirred differently, she wanted to be pleasing to this man she was to meet. As scared as she was of him physically, she was perhaps even more scared of his rejection.

 

The captain of the guard rode up next to her, soaking wet in only his kilt, boots and socks. It seemed the men had foregone their armor, in favor of just covering their manhood. They were home now, no need to be concerned about attacks. 

 

“Close now Lady.” He said, motioned she follow him. 

 

The yells and hollers of the men rang through the open terrain, as if they wanted every man woman, child and beast to hear them coming through. Sansa’s senses were heightened, her adrenaline running as she was caught up in the middle of half a garrison of Westermen ready to come home. 

 

It had gotten much warmer as they had traveled both south and west, the sun beat down on them tanning the bare chests of the men around her. Sansa didn’t dare remove anything of her outfit, some black leather riding pants, a simple shirt, leather jacket and cloak. Though she wanted to badly, it was far too warm for this temperature. 

 

Suddenly the captain pointed to the horizon and yelled something in there language. The men took off at a full gallop then and Sansa was hard pressed to follow suit. She pushed her horse as hard as she could, determined not to be left behind and to show her soon-to-be warrior husband that she could at least ride a horse. So caught up in the thick of it, Sansa didn’t even notice that she had pushed ahead of most of the men and was neck and neck with the captain.

 

It was mid afternoon, the sun was warm, the air burned the skin. But Sansa pushed on, squeezing her horse tightly between her legs, guiding it deftly over the bridge and into the keep. Her hair had come loose from its braid and was flying wildly around her almost disrupting her vision as both she and the captain crossed the threshold of the outer walls of the Keep. It surprised her that nobody was in the courtyard to greet them, that nobody had called their approach. She turned to the captain, not knowing what to do.

 

“Come.” He said, motioning her to follow him on horseback. 

 

The castle was much smaller than she was used to, and not in the greatest shape. Parts looked uninhabited while others seemed in dire need of repair. Only the main part of the castle looked lived in, and even then, not well lived in. They snaked around the courtyard of the tiny Keep, through a large gate into the training yard. There Sansa could see from her seated position atop her horse, there were some sort of festivities going on. People dressed in different tartan colors, laughing, drinking, dancing, even fighting. Most of the men in the courtyard had gathered there to watch a fight, to cheer on their favorite.

 

The two men that had drawn so much attention from the crowd had swords and were fighting shirtless. One was a smaller man with a dark black beard. He was moving and hopping around his opponent like a bumble bee. The second man was large, bulging with muscles, his kilt riding low on his hips. The rest of his body was free and wild, his sword in experienced hands. Sansa observed the two men, blushing as she’d never observed men fighting in such a state of undress before, much less in this kind of clothing. 

 

The captain of the guard leaned in so only Sansa could hear, “Clegane is…” he tried to find the word a moment, “...big man.” He smiled and leaned in on his saddle to watch the fight.

 

Sansa’s breath caught, she focused again on the larger man who was meeting the smaller man blow for blow. They were not training yard hits either, they were full combat hits, the song of steel on steel ringing out in the yard. 

 

The first thing Sansa could think of was how masculine he was, his body a perfect reproduction of that of the warrior,  or a beast in human form. Each muscle in his chest, neck and arms strained as he met his opponent in open combat, the dirt flew and his sweat formed. It was a beautiful dance, a tempting dance. He was indeed ferocious, Sansa had no question on that. He was strong, bold and his long dark hair had come loose from the bun he had pulled in up in. She could not tell much from his profile, he had a beard that he kept rather short but more than that from this distance was hard to see.  As he moved around the yard, his kilt would flare and ride up. Knowing that they, indeed, wore nothing under this garment Sansa blushed at the idea that she might possibly see his manhood before their wedding night. 

 

Then the two men moved around each other, switching sides. Sansa gasped audibly at the sight of him when he turned the other side of his profile to her. Clegane’s face was marred, but from what she could not be sure at this distance. She had hoped for a man of his age and fair, at the very least if she could not talk to him than to look upon his face and smile would have sufficed. Her heart sank yet again at the thought of how pitiful her life would turn out to be. The scarring served to make him fericer, to serve the purpose of spreading intimidation and fear. But certainly nothing more.

 

He did have an exceptionally beautiful male form though,  _ ‘Perhaps I could just close my eyes?’  _ She asked herself as she looked on, fearing the two men would kill each other at any moment.

 

Then Lord Clegane turned to block a blow and his eyes caught hers. She was immediately seized by them, knowing that he recognized who she was atop her horse. It seemed like an eternity that his eyes didn't move from hers, he was drinking her in, absorbing her look. The only thing that came between was a sword swipe to face, which he dodged at the last minute, the blade passing mere centimeters from his nose. Sansa shrieked at his movement, surprised at his agility and relieved he had avoided injury. It drew the attention of some of the onlookers, who eyed her with both interest and suspicion.

 

His sword was certainly larger than father’s, and he was wielding it as if it weighed nearly nothing. The two men would quickly change approaches, the smaller one running in quickly in an effort to catch his opponent off balance. In response Clegane was switching his grips, keeping his sword loosely in his hands ready for anything. It was quite a feat. Most men gripped their swords until they were white in the knuckles, but not him. The sword was an extension of his arm, a deadly weapon in a symbiotic relationship with a man.

 

Sansa had the distinct impression that every move he made after their eyes caught was a bit more elaborated and made to impress her. His stances wider, his swings more pleasing to the eye. And he was indeed pleasing to the eye in an unconventional sort of way that surprised Sansa. Rolling to avoid an attack, a slight bit of Clegane’s upper legs and lower cheeks flashed to the crowd and Sansa could see them from where she sat. The slight breeze coming through the training yard didn’t help matters much, his kilt occasionally lifting to the breeze. 

 

_ ‘Stop thinking those things. _ ’ Sansa admonished herself. She didn’t know one could be capable of having improper thoughts without really knowing what one wanted. Perhaps the men bathing in the river today had awakened something in Sansa that she had not known was there. She blushed furiously whilst wondering what this mountain of a man looked like without his clothes.

 

The clash changed directions quickly, the smaller man making a wrong move, his sword flung to the ground. Clegane gained the upper hand, bringing his massive fists to the smaller man’s face punching him, then grasping his sword hand and kicking him in the gut forcing his opponent on his knees. 

 

Sandor said something in his native language that must have been akin to “Yield” as he said it with authority, holding his own sword to the man’s throat. 

 

The man nodded and Clegane brought his large hand down to help the man to his feet. There was a cheer throughout the crowd and money was exchanged. Sansa could not tell what the purpose of such a thing was, only that her body felt suddenly warm under her cloak at the sight of the Lord of the West headed her way. 

 

She remained on her horse as her husband-to-be approached. She’d never seen a man like that, not her father not any of her brothers. He was tall, easily two meters or just over, a monster of man built to kill. His barreled chest had a covering of dark brown hair, thick and bushy, giving Sansa a pull in her woman’s place though she could not be sure why. Even on her horse Sansa felt small, his imposing form nearing her. 

 

“Lady Stark.” He said, his deep voice almost pulling a gasp from her lips as he said it. The Lord of the Westerlands had an accent as he spoke, but it didn’t seem as strong as the others. He offered his hands to help her off her large horse.

 

Sansa inhaled deeply so as to get her bearings. “I’m perfectly capable of dismounting a horse on my own.” She said, a fire in her eye. 

 

Grinning at her moody outburst, her husband-to-be took a step back, allowing her space to dismount. Not daring to show weakness Sansa looked at him, her blue eyes unflinching. He was looking at her with his complete and undivided attention, as if nothing else in the world existed. She dismounted her horse with relative ease, despite the fact that she was surrounded by an unknown number of extremely curious clansmen.

 

Normally Sansa looked most men straight in the eye, being tall for a lady. It was demoralizing to have to look up to Sandor Clegane, he dwarfed her both in height and width. Seeing him from afar could already strike fear in a man’s heart, but seeing him up close made her want to faint. His long dark hair was tied back, a loose bun with stray hairs falling around his face. He had been disfigured, half of his face completely normal while the other half was covered by a scarring that she assumed must have been from fire. To think of this as the last thing most men saw when they engaged him, was a horrific thought. Sansa understood now what her father had meant by capable, Sandor had a physicality to him that could only be built up by years of continuous fighting. That was clear by the scarring and old wounds that littered his body. His kilt hung loosely and low on his waist, showing how his abdominal muscles bulged past his hips leading down in a ‘V’ shape to where she knew his manhood must be. Sansa swallowed hard, the very thought of how large that part of him must be, making her blush even more than she already was.

 

_ ‘Please let him think it’s from the heat and not embarrassment.’ _ She pleaded with herself.

 

They stared at each other a moment, Sansa not exactly sure where she should look. To look upon his face be considered impolite given he was so ugly. To look upon his exquisitely sculpted chest would be to insight a flush so red, it would embarrass her in front of these men more. To look any lower than his chest, toward his abs and the trail of hair that led teasingly down below his kilt, would be to entice her womanly senses. So she looked off to the side of him, the side where the better side of his face was in her peripheral vision.

 

There was a dead silence as she was being observed, one that made her exceptionally uncomfortable.

 

“I should require a bath my Lord and a room to stay.” She didn’t want him to lose sight of the fact that they were supposed to be separated before their marriage. That she was a hostage of his, his ward to be more exact, until her father removed all of his men from Lord Clegane’s lands. Though his eyes were already consummating their marriage as she spoke, making her voice falter. “And I should…”

 

Before she could finish her second request he took her hair in his hand and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply. “Red hair. So rare in the Westerlands.” He grinned at his prize, a possessive look in his eyes. The burned side of his face twitched upward in a slightly different way than his unburnt side, giving Sansa an eerie feeling.

 

Then he said something in his language, loud enough for all the men around to hear. It elicited  a cheer from the men and some sheepish laughs and grins. Sansa was getting upset, any normal well raised man would have bowed, kissed her hand and introduced himself. Anger was quickly overtaking her fear.

 

She tried to speak again, but was again spoken over, his dirty hand grabbing her chin, forcing her to look at him, “Blue eyes, like ice. The eyes of a wolf. You are indeed the prize your father promised me.”

 

Sansa’s eyes narrowed at him, at the feeling of being a broodmare one could just hand over without her own will or consent. She was furious now. Angry that her father had passed her off to this deformed monster of a man with no manners and no proper lands. She was angry because she could not understand what was going on around her, the customs, traditions and manner of being were so different here that it was disorienting.

 

He said something again in his language, the men around ‘oohhed’ and ‘ahhed’ the whole thing. She should have been happy he could speak the common tongue in a way she could understand, but she felt no joy at this, a flush creeping up through her neck to her face. An angry flush.

 

She didn’t know what he was playing at, but she needed to establish herself. Thinking back to what she knew of direwolves, the animal that made up her family sigil, it all became clear.

 

_ ‘He’s establishing his dominance over me, trying to make me feel like a toy and not a woman. He’s testing me.’ _ It was often the case with wolves that a dominant male and a dominant female ran the pack, often squabbling amongst themselves in a way that was almost playful -- yet with a serious purpose. If she was going to survive here, she would need to be strong like an alpha female. 

 

She cleared her throat, snatching her chin out of his grip and looked dead into his eyes. “I said.” Her voice came out steadier this time, more steady than she could have hoped for. “I will require a bath and a room to stay in.”

 

At this change of tone a curious look crossed Lord Clegane’s face, he considered something. “Erold.” 

 

He raised his voice and a boy came running through the crowd. It seemed he could at least understand the common tongue. “Have a bath prepared in my chambers, it appears both Lady Sansa and I need to...freshen up.”

 

Those men who could understand the common tongue chuckled at his words, knowing he meant to have her whisked off to his chambers and bed her there immediately. Sansa was horrified, and even more angry at his audacity than before. Her cheeks filled with color, she had to think fast.  _ ‘You’re a wolf with the blood of the first men in you. He is only a man and nothing more.’ _

 

So she said the first words that came to mind. “Is my Lord so eager to prove himself a green boy between my legs? An embarrassing way to start a union I would say.”

 

Inside her mind was exploding, she didn’t even know what half of those words really meant all together, having only heard them from her brothers. Sansa had an approximation of what it could mean, knew that if men were really attracted to a woman that they certainly wanted to show her they were not a green boy...but other than that she couldn’t be sure what she had said. She couldn’t be sure if it would make him angry, but it was too late now.

 

The Lord of the West laughed outright at her words, placing his hands on his hips and throwing his head back, his dark hair flying -- though the other men around her were silent. At this display they eased. 

 

“In my lands they say redheads are kissed by fire. They say that the spark within them makes them a handful to tame…” he paused a moment, looking her over once more, “...makes them insatiable in bed.” At this the men gathered around them smiled and nodded their heads.

 

The monster of a man smiled, “Then perhaps my lady is correct, it would do me no favors to embarrass myself this eve. Erold, make two baths in our separate chambers.”

 

Sansa was relieved, almost over so as she curtseyed, “Thank you my Lord.”

 

“You will eat dinner with me tonight. We shall have all our meals together, that is an order.” The difference in tone his voice took at this made Sansa’s blood run cold. It threatened physical consequences, anger the likes of which she could not imagine.

 

Her voice faltered slightly as her eyes diverted from his to the floor, “As my Lord desires.” 

 

He snorted at her words, clearly he knew the common tongue well to know the double meaning of the word desire. Sansa was relieved when a young woman came and took her by the arm, turning her from Lord Clegane and guiding her through the collection of men and to his meager castle. It was obvious to Sansa that he was going to do everything in his power to lure her into his bed, anything he could. It was a not so subtle game of seduction that Sansa would try her hardest not to give into.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The translations for the words are “good rider” and “red hair”. I am doing the English to Scottish Gaelic on google translate so forgive me if there is something off. Then I will just blame the googlez :-)


	4. Patience Makes Kings Out of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor learns a little more about his wife to be and gets some advice as to how to progress his budding relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with some great ideas!!!! Whoot!!! Thanks for all the great support and comments thus far. I'm pretty sure I know where this story is going and that's extremely satisfying. I have not yet started writing the next chapter on the War of Southern Occupation - it's going to take some time as it's a bit more intense...but I know what's happening!

#  Chapter 4: Patience Makes Kings Out of Men

 

##  Sandor

 

Slipping down into the warm water of his bathtub Sandor ran his fingers through his hair, then pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He had heard tell that Lord Stark’s red headed daughter held a beauty few could compare to, he hadn’t  _ actually _ expected it to be true. There had always been a sense that tales of her beauty had been over exaggerated, like war stories that keep getting more brutal, the odds more dire as they are told with time. She could have been half as beautiful and Sandor would have still been head over heels for her, now he had a fucking tiger by the tail. 

 

Lady Sansa had a fierce streak in her too. The few words that had come out of her mouth had been cutting and to the point, he liked it. Though Sandor also knew that those things had a tendency to upset him, and when his temper flared he was neither kind nor just. To tame her would be to control something he had never had to before, to swallow a certain part of himself and try to maintain calm and peace - not his strong suit for sure.

 

_ ‘What the fuck to do?’ _ Sandor asked himself as he dipped back under the water. 

 

He had no idea of women, didn’t know the first thing about them other than where to put his cock. His mother had died early, his father never remarried. All he really knew in the end was that women complicated things, and he had no patience for complications.

 

_ ‘What am I supposed to do with a Lady wife? Consult her on...ruling? On war? On how my fucking hair looks today?’ _ Sandor was suddenly gripped by the uncomfortable feeling of being in over his head. 

 

He knew how to wage war, command and army and outwit his opponent at a moment’s notice -- he was in no way prepared for Sansa Stark and the way she might change his life. His cock however, had a very different picture of the situation. Sandor eyed it from his vantage point above the water and, rather in vain, tried to stare it back down to a reasonable size. He rolled his eyes in frustration knowing that the mere thought of her was enough to  make him stand at full attention, ready to do his duty as many times as needed. 

 

“Traitorous fucking cock.” Sandor muttered under his breath as the door to his chambers burst open.

 

Sandor didn’t have to turn around from his position in the tub to know how it was his words were enough to identify him. “That’s a bonnie wee lassie ya got yerself.” 

 

Sandor grinned.

 

It was Alastor, his captain of the guard, the man who had brought Sansa to the West unharmed. He was older than Sandor, had served under his father before Sandor took over the clans and armies. He trusted this man, he trusted him more than his own brother for sure -- maybe even more than he had his own father. 

 

Sandor reached toward Alastor and they gripped eachother high on the forearm in greeting. The older man sat down on a chair and poured some whiskey out from the bottle he had into the two small glasses he had brought with him. Clinking the glasses together they both drank deeply. It wasn’t hard to tell that Alastor had had a few drinks before coming to see Sandor and it wasn’t surprising either. Sandor had asked him to come consult him on the Lady of Winterfell. He needed to know more about her, and Alastor had spent more time with her than Sandor had. Though Sandor would be sure to rectify that as soon as possible.

 

“Aye, it seems like old Stark is a man of his word.” Sandor replied, referring to conversations the two men had had before the had parted ways.

 

The two men looked at one another and smiled, they had both been a war with Lord Stark as long as they could remember and they both knew that he could be both honest and dishonest depending on the mood.

 

“She’s got a bit ‘a sass to her too.” Sandor mused, thinking about how cute she had been this morning in the training yard. She had stood up to him, that was a good sign.

 

Alastor nodded, “Aye. That she does.” He drank another shot of whiskey and continued, “She’s strong laddie, that I can tell ya. Me and the boys never broke stride or slowed down - the girl can ride a horse like she was born to it.” 

 

Then the older man leaned his head in, “If she squeezes ya between her legs like she did that horse, yer in for a real treat ma boy. Heck, she even beat me through the gates that little minx.”

 

The old man cackled, showing some of his missing teeth. Sandor merely shook his head and leaned back. “Yeah but you’re fuckin’ old. Even a boy whore with two scrawny legs could beat you through the gates these days. It’s about time somebody challenged your command, I just didn’t know it’s be my wife to be.”

 

There was a jovial laugh between the two men, seeing as both liked to give each other shit. Whether she knew it or not, Sansa had broken a cardinal rule of his garrison, which was that the captain was to enter the walls of the castle first. Having overtaken Alastor meant that she must be a fucking good rider and that she had some sort of intention to unseat him as the captain. Sandor smirked at the thought, knowing he might be able to use that against her later. 

 

If Alastor said she was a good rider, then Sandor had no reason to question it. Even if he had been unsure, the time they made coming back from the North had been too good. Sandor had not expected them to come back to the West as fast as they had, which meant she must have been able to hold her own. That was no small feat, the guard he sent to Winterfell were of his own clan and elite, they had been riding horses since before they could walk, had rarely been off of their beasts in war time. 

 

They clinked glasses and both drank more whiskey. Sandor began, “Now I just have to make her my wife in truth.” 

 

Perhaps the way he said it came out a bit disheartened for Alastor gave him a proper clop on the back. “Oh come now laddie. Who couldn’t fall in love with that fuckin’ gorgous mug of yers?” 

 

A huge laugh erupted from the older man’s chest as Sandor splashed water in his direction. Sandor didn’t care much about his face, it had been something inflicted on him by his brother, something he had lived with and accepted. He knew he was by no means beautiful, even without the scaring, but he did have  _ other  _ assets. 

 

It hadn’t been completely by accident that Alastor, his men and Sansa had arrived on a festival day at the Keep. Sandor had made sure to evoke five days of feasting and fighting to celebrate their victory over the North and to welcome his much awaited bride. He knew the chances were high that they would arrive within those five days, Sandor knew he’d be fighting on all  of them in the traditional way - with only his kilt, boots and a sword. It seemed to have had the desired affect, at least it seemed like she was quite taken with his body.

 

Seeing that Sandor wasn’t talking Alastor continued, “Well ya could always use the ‘Clegane Charm’ on her.” The old man winked a few times and took another dram of whiskey.

 

At this Sandor laughed outright. He knew what his captain was referring to, his cock. It was known amongst the men that Sandor was well endowed, perhaps even too much for some women. So they always used to tease him that when his smile didn’t win her over, that his one-eyed monster certainly would. 

 

“Right Alastor. I’ll just eat dinner awkwardly with her, then whip it out on a the table and propose it as dessert.” The two men laughed a good long while on that one, but then Sandor felt the pressure of even speaking with her at dinner hit him. It was the realization that he had been at war for so long, that it was all knew -- it put him on edge.

 

Sandor sighed, “I don’t even know what to talk with her about Ali.” Sandor always used Alastor’s short name when he was distressed, an old childhood habit. “You’ve got a wife and three daughters at home, you must know where to start.”

 

The older man became more serious, sensing Sandor’s insecurity with the whole situation. “You’ve got to be yerself lad.” Then he sighed, “And also not.”

 

“What in the bloody seven hells is that supposed to mean?” Sandor spat, he hated riddles and anything of the sort.

 

“All I’m tryin’ to say is,” the older man began, “she’s come a long way to a place that is very different from her own. She’s already seen many things she probably never thought she would.”

 

At this Sandor raised an eyebrow indicating he needed Alastor to explain that one a bit further. 

 

The old man grinned, “Well the young lassie saw fifty nekkid Westerman run into the damn Red Fork for starters.”

 

Sandor had almost forgotten about their custom, it was so normal that it didn’t even register as something out of place. Each time their armies came back home the men did a ritual cleansing. A bath, a clean and perhaps a little fun sport to leave the pain and anguish of war behind. As if once they crossed their borders they could leave war behind and be whole when they returned to their families. 

 

“I can tell you one thing though. Your lassie likes menfolk.” Alastor said with a satisfied grin, “She kept eyen us all up and down and stuff...makin’ us all uncomfortable and objectified. Particularly me.”

 

Sandor knew Alastor was giving him a hard time. While he was a fantastic warrior, Alastor was an old man and not one that would ignite the passions of a young woman. At least Sandor didn’t think so. At that both men laughed and Sandor replied, “Even if she just liked women, I’d support it...if she let me play too.” 

 

A wicked grin crossed the older man’s face. “You’re a dirty boy ma lad, dirty!” Then the captain of the guard got serious again. “The girl is coming here to honor her father, to fulfill a promise. She’s scared, unsure and curious all at once. I know it’s not in yer blood but ya have to be patient wit her. Ya have listen a bit and ya have to be kind boy.”

 

Sandor stood up in the tub and grabbed a towel, “I am kind.” He said, almost adversarially. 

 

“No lad,” Alastor said in all seriousness, “yer not. Patience makes kings out of men lad - it’s what distinguishes a wise man from a young pup.”

 

Sandor didn’t like hearing that, he turned his back to his friend and dried himself.

 

“You have to be kind to her lad. She’s the wolf after all, she could be the one to fulfill the prophecy.”

 

Sandor wrapped his kilt around his body and began to pleat it turning back to his old friend. “Oh don’t start with that shit Alastor. I didn’t know you’d taken to believing in fairy tales.”

 

Perhaps it was because he was drunk that Alastor’s response was a bit more aggressive than usual, but Sandor let it slide. “It’s not fucking fairy tales son, it’s the truth.”

 

They stared each other a moment in the eye before Alastor continued. “Our forefathers drove the wolves from these lands and ever since, it’s not been the same. The game has not been the same the nature - what we live from has not been like it was in days of old.”

 

Sandor rolled his eyes but let the older man speak, remembering he needed to practice on his ‘listening’. “That girl has the blood of the wolf in her. She will make our people prosper like the prophecy says.”

 

Sandor couldn’t take it any more, “She has no fucking wolf blood in her Ali. She’s a human like you or me, just a highborn gorgeous fuckable one. Listen to yourself!”

 

The old man would not relent, “I saw it with my own eyes boy. A she-wolf following us from the North. She was slinking through the woods, putting the men on edge and the horses too - but I saw her. A grey coat and eyes as blue as your lassie’s. It was following her Sandor, the men couldn’t stop talking about it.”

 

At this Sandor cocked his head in slight disbelief. 

 

“It followed her until the Red Fork, then I lost sight of it.” Alastor paused a moment, waiting for Sandor to reply. When he didn’t, he continued. “A wolf in the Westerlands for the first time in how many generations?”

 

Sandor pulled his fingers through his hair and put on his tunic, tucking it into this kilt. “I think you’ve been drinking too much old friend.” Sandor’s tone was a clear indication that it was time to end the conversation. “Get some rest and I’ll tell you how it goes with her in the morning.”

 

At this Alastor shook his head and threw his hands up in frustration. “It’s true Sandor whether you want to believe it or not. And a wolf is only happy when she has room to roam. You’d do good to remember that tonight with your lassie.”

 

The old man left Sandor’s chambers then, leaving Sandor in  a state of confusion. Sandor didn’t believe in the ramblings of old wet nurses, he never had. Yet, he’d never seen his captain so riled up as he had just now. Whatever he had seen in the woods had spooked him, had made a grounded man suddenly superstitious. 

 

If that wasn’t enough Sandor was suddenly struck by an awkward feeling.  _ ‘What happens when Gregor finds out about this?’ _ He wondered to himself. 

 

His estranged brother had left the Westerlands years ago in favor of serving the Lannisters. He looked down on the clans, found them unruly and barbaric. In essence Sandor’s older brother had given up his claim to the lordship in favor of becoming a King’s Guard in King’s Landing. But now with a highborn woman the soon to be wife of a Westerman -- Sandor wondered what kind of trouble that might bring. It had been a risk he had not calculated and game he had not yet played and it concerned him.

 

_ ‘Let him come.’ _ Sandor said to himself finally.  _ ‘Let him come and try. _ ’ It was with that thought, and the confidence it brought him, that Sandor made his way to his she-wolf’s chambers.

 


	5. Anger Makes Boys Out of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An awkward evening in the presence of Sansa leads to a tumultuous situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe it was Lady Clegane of the North who mentioned something in the early comments about liking to see Sandor pout over something. Taking this piece of advice has lead to the next two chapters, and what will become the first conflict event between our two love birds. Enjoy and, as always, I thank the community for giving me the inspiration to create this story.

# Chapter 5: Anger Makes Boys Out of Men

## Sansa

 

The room Sansa had been given in Clegane Keep were not exactly of the standard she was used to, in all honesty far from it. But she would try to endure -- she would have to endure. The room was small, dark with only a small window looking out onto a green meadow. It was more like a prison than a room where a lady should be kept.

 

 _‘At least the bed is feather.’_ She noted as she sat down on it and took in her cramped quarters further.

 

There was a small fireplace, and near it a vanity and a screen. The vanity must have been a thousand years old and not often used as it was out of fashion and covered in dust. It had only enough room for a handful of her brushes, combes, creams and such -- but certainly not all of them.

 

Sansa rolled her eyes. _‘I hate it here. I want to go home.’_

 

She did her best not to cry, knowing that the servant girl would be in shortly to fill the tub, which took up a sizable portion of the already small room. The girl’s name was Fiona and Sansa was pleased that she spoke just enough of the common tongue that they could communicate. It was a relief, and the thought of having a nice warm bath to soothe her aching muscles was just heavenly.

 

Sansa wondered if her mother had thought a similar thing when she went to live with her father in Winterfell. Riverrun was certainly a different place, full of southern comforts and pretty things -- different from the cold northern practicality that was the home of her father’s family. But this was clearly a step down, she hadn’t been given to a high lord as an equal. She’d been given to a pesant as a peace offering.

 

 _‘I’d rather be dead.’_ Sansa repeated to herself as Fiona came in dutifully with her water buckets to fill the bath.

 

Busying herself with unpacking the few things she had, Sansa was disheartened at the fact that her dresses were dirty. It was practically inescapable given the pace at which they had ripped through Westeros, that left her with only a simple garment that hung from the screen in her room. It was a dress in of the western style, simple, raw spun not silk and short to the ankles. There wasn’t even a corset or anything, it was short sleeved, low necked and rather ugly.

 

 _‘He wants to see me in this?’_ She rolled her eyes. _‘He has no concept of what is new or fashionable.’_

 

She pushed these negative thoughts out of her head while she undressed and got into the bath, letting the steaming hot water color her skin red. The back of the tub was to the door, so she could only hear things moving behind her as the girl bustled around.

 

“Lord Clegane wants that you eat with him here.” Fiona said from behind Sansa in a very measured and practiced way, then continued moving in what Sansa presumed was a table and an additional chair. The girl was trying hard and that was what mattered most. The smells of food soon followed.

 

To be honest, Sansa couldn't have cared less where they ate or what they did. It was going to be horrible to have to stare at his face and try to eat at the same time. Better to lose her dinner in her own room than in front of his men. Dipping her head back she used the soap to was that and scrub her body. She’d never been so dirty in her life and she had no intention of making that a weekly occurrence. Upon completion of her scrubbing, Sansa began to relax a bit letting her head lay back on the high backed tub and her body give into the relaxing heat. It felt so good, better than she could ever remember. The water’s warmth brought a small smile to Sansa’s face as she nestled herself into the tub, relaxing fully.

 

The next thing Sansa knew she had woken up, still in the tub -- her water now only luke warm. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sleeping just that it had been good for her. Her nerves were certainly calmer, her resolve to face her husband-to-be a bit stronger. Looking around Sansa saw her robe on a chair a bit behind her, rather out of reach. She leaned her head back on the tub and closed her eyes, not wanting to brave the cool air of her room and walk the few steps to her robe.

 

Then she heard the door crack open. _‘Ahh Fiona.’_ She smiled to herself.

 

Without looking back she stood, “Fiona, could you hand me the robe please?”

 

To her great surprise Fiona didn’t merely hand her the robe, but she could hear the rustling of the fabric as if she were opening it so Sansa could put her arms through it.

 

“That’s sweet, thank you.” Sansa said, moving her arms into the sleeves. It was only when the pair of hands helped push the robe over her shoulders, coming into view, that she realized it wasn’t Fiona standing behind her -- it was a man.

 

Shrieking bloody murder Sansa wrapped the robe around her soaking wet body and turned to meet the gaze of Sandor Clegane. He had a rather roguish grin on his face as she clambered to cover herself appropriately, her face flushed in embarrassment.

 

“How dare you!!!” She hissed, so embarrassed that he’d seen her partially nude that she nearly fell backwards out of the tub.

 

“You asked.” Sandor answered simply, giving her a look over and then moving toward the table.

 

Furious Sansa stepped out of the tub dragging her wet robe behind the screen with her. She began to use a towel to dry herself angrily as she heard a chair creak under Sandor’s enormous weight.

 

“Do all ladies take baths as long as you do?” He asked, baiting her from the other side of the screen. There was a hint of playfulness in his voice that Sansa felt was out of place given the situation.

 

Sansa felt like she was being teased by one of her older brothers, which she _hated._

 

“No.” She answered, anger still in her voice. “I fell asleep. Your men ride hard through the countryside.”

 

He said nothing and she was glad for it. Turning to the dress that had been put there for her Sansa only now realized that she didn’t really know how to really put it on. Though it looked much simpler than what she was used to wearing, there were some ties and loops that she was unfamiliar with.

 

Noticing she was a bit distressed he called teasingly to her, “Need any help back there?”

 

 _‘Oh he knows how to make my blood boil.’_ She thought to herself as she pulled the green dress over her head and began to fight with it a bit. Wrestling the garment over her body and doing her best to drag it into place, she had the very strange suspicion she was doing something wrong. But at least she was covered from his roaming eyes, and at least he had a shirt on this time. No need to be distracted by his large muscular chest. Sansa blushed slightly at the thought of her own roaming eyes and his chest from earlier in the day as she stepped out from behind the screen, feeling extremely uncomfortable.

 

Clegane was leaning back in a chair, his arms crossed over his chest, legs apart, his eyes alert. A sly grin crept across his marred features at the sight of her.

 

“Almost, but not quite.” He said clearly referring to her poor attempt at putting on the dress that had been laid out for her. “May I?”

 

She had the sneaking suspicion that he had certainly anticipated this as a problem for her and was using it as a way to get closer. Seeing as though she had quite a bit of discomfort in the garment she reluctantly nodded, giving him permission to come forward.

 

 _‘Gods he’s a monster of a man.’_ She thought to herself as he towered over her, just his size was enough to intimidate most people, combined with that face and a sword and she couldn’t imagine how anybody could face him in battle.

 

Sandor’s fingers moved deftly to the front of her dress near her waist, ever so slightly pressing against her. Quickly he unknotted her ties and opened the dress up a bit, so as to move it around. For being such a brute of a man, he had an amazingly light touch, one that gave Sansa goosebumps even as he touched her over her clothes. She could tell by the unabashed look on his face that even seeing a little bit of her skin excited him, for his sheepish grin told volumes about what was going on in his mind. She tried to keep her breathing even, she didn’t want to give him the impression that she was scared of or even exhilarated by his touch. Sansa fought to keep herself as neutral as possible.

 

Quickly pulling the ties through some loops she had not seen he pulled the front of her dress tight again and gently nudged her to turn around. She had no idea what he was doing back there, but if his breathing was any indication -- he liked what he was doing very much. Finally and luckily the dress was pulled tight against her body and he turned her back to him.

 

“There.” He said admiring her more than his work. “Beautiful.”

 

Sansa managed a weak smile of thanks and went to the table and sat, picking some fruit from a bowl and managing to eat it. There was something unsettling about the way he observed her. Not in the sense that she was afraid he would attempt to take her virtue by force, but it was as if he were assessing her with the clean efficiency of a soldier. Looking for her strengths, weaknesses, deciding where he might probe or strike first. She had never seen dinner as a theater of war, yet he was turning it into one with the penetrating gaze of his steel grey eyes.

 

She had no idea what she was supposed to talk with him about. As a lady she had been schooled in many different kinds of conversations, but none of them had to do with the things he was interested in. Sansa knew nothing of war, and very little of tactics. Only what she had overheard her father talking about at dinner, or from her brothers when they played their war games.

 

 _‘Should I compliment him on his shirt?_ ’ She asked herself in vain, _‘Tell him that he’s a strong warrior ... ‘_ She could have cringed for frustration but she held her face steady, watching him.

 

It was the biggest relief to her when he finally spoke, sitting down across from her, again not making any effort to cross his legs or hide a glimpse of his manhood from her view. Sansa kept her eyes on his face.

 

“So you like to ride?” He asked, his gravelly voice cutting the darkness of her room.

 

“Horses you mean?” She asked tentatively, hoping he wasn’t trying to draw her into some sort of battle of the wits over word choice.

 

His lips pulled into a mischievous smirk, “Yeah, what else?”

 

Blushing deeply Sansa took control of her wits once more. “Yes my Lord. I’ve been brought up as such...and I find them to be beautiful creatures.”

 

“It shows. My men say you ride like a Westerman.” Sansa blushed at this compliment and looked down at the floor. Sandor continued, “But I also hear that you challenged my captain of the guard.”

 

At this her eyes shot towards his as all the color drained from her face. “But how…?”

 

Sandor leaned forward, taking the opportunity to clasp his large hand over her stunned tiny one. “You beat him through the castle gates, an honor reserved for the captain.”

 

“But I didn’t mean…” She pleaded.

 

“I know, I know. But still, looks like you might have to face him in combat.” The look that danced across his face was far too mischievous, it made Sansa wonder if he was bending the truth a bit. Something about his eyes and the way his accent came out a little more than normal roused her suspicion.

 

She said nothing, but studied his face a bit longer. Sandor took advantage of the empty space, “I could, perhaps smooth this whole thing over...for a kiss.”

 

Now she knew he was grasping at the lowest depths, as he had earlier, to get her close to him. Quickly she countered, “Then your captain can take up this discussion with me personally. We managed to communicate the entire trip here with only three words in the common tongue. I’m sure we’ll find a culturally appropriate solution using those same three words.”

 

At this the big man grinned widely and barked out a laugh. Then he grabbed a piece of chicken and began to eat it.

 

“What’s so funny?” She managed to squeak out, knowing that challenging him was better than saying nothing -- but knowing it could lead down a dangerous road. When he didn’t answer she pushed forward, “I’m a woman grown. I can handle my own matters.”

 

At this comment he put the chicken down and wiped his mouth with his arm, “A woman grown?” He asked her in rhetorical and condescending way. “No.” He shook his head and looked deep into her eyes. “You’re a woman grown when I make you one. We could do it now, the perfect dessert at the end of a meal…”

 

Sansa’s mouth hung open in disbelief at his words, she almost couldn’t think of anything to say as her face flushed with anger. Her eyes narrowed and her breathing became more labored as she tried to decide what she should even to say to that, or what she should do. She felt the anger coursing through her veins, going through her body and coming back around. Sandor also seemed to be regretting his choice of words as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Then he ran his fingers through his hair nervously and stood up.

 

“You look just like him you know.” He said, his voice no longer had a playful twinge to it, it was very serious--perhaps even rueful. “When you’re angry, you look just like him.”

 

Glaring at the large Westerman Sansa spoke, “Like who? My father?” She nearly spat the last words out, as if it were the most preposterous thing one could say.

 

Sansa looked nothing like her father in any way. She didn’t know what Sandor was trying to say or do, just that the more he opened his mouth the more angry she was becoming.

 

He shook his head. “No. Like your brother.”

 

At this Sansa was clearly taken aback. “And how could you know that?” There was an insolence in her voice that bordered on condescending.

 

Sandor’s eyes darkened as he looked at her, “Because I was there at the Golden Tooth, I saw him.”

 

All the color must have drained from Sansa’s face because she began to feel faint. The Golden Tooth was where Robb was killed, it was where he fell not all that long ago.

 

Sandor continued, “You have that same look in your eye when you want to kill a man.”

 

Sansa’s brain was working overtime, putting the pieces of what Sandor wasn't saying together and getting more upset and distraught by the minute. She breathed in deep, but it didn’t stop the angry shaking of her body and her blood pressure, which threatened to boil over.

 

 _‘Don’t say it.’_ She pleaded with him from her mind’s eye. _‘Just don’t.’_ If he said anything, even mentioned Robb’s name, she didn’t know what she would do -- and she didn’t want to find out.

 

“He was a good warrior, just went on a fool’s errand. I made sure he didn’t suffer, gave him an honorable death.” There was a reverence in his eyes and a seriousness that didn’t matter at all to Sansa.

 

She didn’t know what possessed her to stand up, walk over to him and slap the large warrior in the face so hard it made her hand hurt. The sound of it cut through the room as if she had cracked a whip across him. He clearly felt the sting as well bringing his hand to his face in both shock and pain.

 

“Leave.” She yelled at him. “Get out!” She threw her napkin at him.

 

When Sandor turned his face back to hers there was an anger in his eyes she had never seen in a man before. It burned deep and heavy, almost matching hers blow for blow. For a split second she thought he might retaliate physically.

 

But he didn’t. He simply turned and walked out the door.

 

It was when she locked the door behind him that he lost it. No sooner had she done so than she heard and saw his ferocious pounding at her door.

 

“Sansa!!!” He bellowed through the door, his anger unleashed. “Don’t you lock that door, don’t you keep me out!”

 

He was pounding on the massively think door with all his might and she could see the hinges rattle, she could feel the thumps reverberate in her chest. It was as if a massive beast were trying to claw through her door. But perhaps foolishly, she would not back down.

 

“I hate you!” She screamed at him through the door, her voice swallowed up with tears. “I never want to see you again!”

 

That only served to infuriate him more, as he kicked punched and shoved at the door. She had the impression the whole castle was shaking the way the dust flew from the ceiling and the plates rattled on the table from his efforts. Sansa waited, what seemed an eternity before he stopped, before she allowed her knees to give way collapsing on the floor. Her tears flowed freely now her anger replaced with sadness.

 

 _‘Father gave me to him. He gave me to him knowing he had killed Robb...that he had murdered my brother.’_ There were no words to describe the betrayal she felt, no emotions that suited her loss and despair.

 

 _‘The wife of the murderer of my brother? How could you?’_ She asked her father in her own mind.

 

Sansa was reminded of a saying old Nan used to tell them _‘Anger makes boys out of men’._ She had never really known what her old wet nurse had been referring to, but now she understood fully what it meant. Wiping the tears from her eyes Sansa never wanted to leave this room, she just wanted to wither away and die here. So she layed on the cold stone floor, crumpled, scared, alone and afraid. Determined to stay there until the Stranger would take her.

 


	6. With His Tail Between His Legs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor ponders the meaning of what happened between him and Sansa, while getting some help from an unusual source.

#  Chapter 6: With His Tail Between His Legs

##  Sandor

 

When the morning came and Sansa still would not come out of her room, Sandor flew into a rage even greater than the night before, took his men and left the castle. He had never been so angry in his whole life. She really had this way of getting under his skin and pissing him off much more than any person he had ever known, expect his brother ofcourse. But that was different. Completely.

 

Sandor rode with his elite guard, including Alastor, through the Westerlands and toward the south. There Lord Stark needed to take his men out of his lands, and Sandor needed to make sure his soon-to-be father-in-law was upholding his end of the bargain -- as his daughter certainly wasn’t. It was also a way for him to blow off some steam, calm is agitated nerves.

 

_ ‘Why can’t she see that for what it was? The stupid boy came toward me, he attacked me.’ _ It was like a mantra that Sandor couldn’t get out of his head. He kept replaying the situation of three nights before over and over again. The girl had absolutely no idea of what it was like in battle, of the things they were called upon to do.  _ ‘It’s not like I sought him out to murder him...it was just fate.’ _

 

Sandor shook his head in frustration.  _ ‘This is never going to work.’ _ He realized.  _ ‘We’re just too different.’ _

 

Surveying his expanded territory with his men, Sandor was relieved that the Northmen were pulling out. They were slower than he liked, but nonetheless they were leaving. He had achieved the expansion of western territories as his father had always hoped for. He had brought peace to his lands. Yet he felt so empty inside. It was an emptiness born of the ignorance as to what the next step was. 

 

_ ‘Now I’m supposed to sit on a damn throne and have people come and tell me their fucking problems?’  _ That sounded like torture, it sounded like one of the worst of the Seven Hells he could imagine.  _ ‘Fuck I need to start another war.’  _

 

Of course he was being sarcastic. Neither he nor his armies had the will to continue on, unless they were threatened. Peace was what had been desired, it was just the way he had come to it that had been unforeseen.  _ ‘A promise, a lady wife and now what? It’s not like she’s being particularly helpful -- she didn’t even let me explain myself!’  _ Sandor was brooding, just the thought of her closing him out made him so angry.

 

Only on the fourth day of their journey, after the men had bathed in the Red Fork upon their return and set up camp on the other side of the river, did Alastor come speak with him. Night had fallen and Sandor had pulled away from his men, in favor of sitting alone near the edge of a small forrest.

 

“It didn’t go well did it lad?” The old man said as he sat down next to Sandor, unbid, and handed him a flask with whiskey in it. Sandor didn’t have to ask the man what he was referring to, it was obvious.

 

Sandor took a drink, “Who told you that? Half the fucking castle?” He knew his tantrum had been felt across the Keep, surly it had reached some of the clans by now. It had been stupid, but she had angered him so much.  _ ‘I couldn’t very well keep it inside.’ _

 

“So yer not gonna at least tell me what ya said?” There was a playful glint in Alastor’s eye that always seemed to calm Sandor down, or at least make him look at a dire situation in a different light.

 

Running his fingers through his still wet hair Sandor began, “Well I uh...offered to make her a woman.”

 

At this the older man raised his eyebrows in surprise at Sandor’s boldness, snatched the flask from the younger man and drank really really deeply. So deep Sandor knew the man meant to settle in for a bit.

 

“Well then she got angry.” He continued.

 

“I bet she fuckin’ did.” Alastor chimed in as he crossed his arms, half amused at how the story was going.

 

Sandor shifted uncomfortably in his seat, he didn’t feel this was a story of amusement but one of anger at how she’d wronged him. “And that face, the way her eyes narrowed and that change in her lips...then I told her she looked like her brother. She has that same fierceness in her features.”

 

“Ya didn’t?” Alastor already knew what was coming next, he’d been at the Golden Tooth the same as Sandor.

 

“I did.” Sandor answered, adding quickly, “But I was respectful.” There was silence. 

 

“I couldn’t very well live my whole life with her and not let her know the truth. Especially when she looks exactly like him when she’s angry.” Sandor was trying to garner support from his older friend, but to no avail.

 

The Captain of the Guard shook his head and crossed his arms, “Yer a right cunt ya know that?”

 

Sandor was almost pleading now, frustrated that Ali was taking her side more than his. “She slapped me.”

 

Alastor smirked at that, “I wudda too.”

 

Even more frustrated Sandor continued, “She ordered me to leave. Then locked the door. I couldn’t believe she’d do that -- that she’d lock me out. I was so angry Ali I…” Sandor pointed to his shoulder where a large bruise had formed.

 

Alastor took a moment and looked Sandor over, then leaned toward him, putting his hand on the back of his neck. It was a sign of closeness, something a father would do to his son. “That red-headed lassie is gonna make a man out a ja. And I hope I live long enough ta see it.”

 

This puzzled Sandor more than it helped him. “I am a man.” He said, surprised at his old friend’s words.

 

Alastor shook his head. “No lad. No yer not. A man wudda tried to fix the problem, not run away from it. In that yer just a big hairy boy with bulging muscles. Just like yer not kind or patient neither.”

 

Sandor bristled at his friend’s words, still unwilling to hear them.

 

“Yer used to solving problems with this.” Alastor pointed to Sandor’s broadsword, still strapped to his hip. “Now ya gotta use this,” He pointed to Sandor’s head, “and most important this.” With that the old captain pressed his finger to Sandor’s heart. 

 

It was quite between them for some moments. Sandor put his head in his hands and exhaled deeply. 

 

_ ‘I really fucked up.’ _ He realized, the feeling was so unfamiliar to him that he shivered a bit as it coursed through his body.

 

“If I met the man who killed ma brother, I’d do more than slap him.” Alastor mused, taking another sip from his flask. “Tha girl’s got grit. I can tell ya that.”

 

Sandor gave a weak smile. The old man was right, there weren't too many people willing to stand up to him, much less attack him without fear of retribution. She had done both in one day and he liked it somehow, but a the same time it had a way of making him so angry. He wasn’t used to being questioned or standing opposed -- not until she came into his life.

 

“The boy came at me.” Sandor reiterated a little less frustrated and a little more mournful. “He came at me stupidly, because he thought he could end the war quickly if he killed me. He was a good fighter, just overzealous and it cost him. I took no joy in it.”

 

“But she don’t know that.” Alastor said, “She’s grown up in da North untouched by war. She understands nothin’ about what we did, what her bloody father did...not a bloody thing.”

 

It finally hit Sandor then, it hit him like he’d run into a stone wall. He’d spent so much time in the thick of it, that he had no idea how to act on the other side. There was such a huge disconnect between his experience and hers, that he couldn’t even understand her side -- until his old friend has spelled it out for him. Even then he couldn’t totally grasp it.

 

“I’m a fucking idiot.” Sandor said, snorting at thought.

 

“No, yer a cunt. Now don’t be insultin’ idiots.” Alastor said with a laugh as he clopped Sandor on the shoulder and urged him to drink more whiskey.

 

“What do I do then?” Sandor asked, now willing to take any sort of counsel the old man had.

 

“Ya don’t run away from a problem for starters.” The old man said, referring to how they had left the castle in a hurry four days earlier. 

 

Sandor nodded, feeling a wave of shame crash over him.

 

“I can’t much say what ya should do.” The old man paused for a moment as if he were contemplating some deep. “ Just think of what a cunt would do, then do the opposite a that.” Alastor laughed at his own joke but looked seriously into Sandor’s eyes. He nodded then to Sandor and walked back to the camp to rejoin the men.

 

Not knowing what else to do Sandor let out a yell of frustration at the moon and hit the dirt. Things had always been so easy for him, it was either fight, sleep, eat or fuck. Now it was so very different and complex. It was scary and new too, which made it also exhilarating. 

 

A twig suddenly broke at the edge of the forest and Sandor made for the hilt of his sword as he turned.  _ ‘Oh fuck me!’ _

 

It was a she-wolf, her coat grey and her eyes as blue as Sansa’s. The old man hadn’t been drinking too much, she was here -- on his lands. They were revered in the West, almost mythical. Sandor quickly put his hands up as if her were surrendering to the beast, just to show her he meant no harm. A chill ran up his spine, it was a beautiful beast something he’d only heard tell of.

 

They were eyeing one another, him weaponless and she with a rabbit in her mouth. When it was clear he had no intention of harming her the wolf slowly made her way toward him, then dropped the rabbit at his feet and sat -- as if he were some kind of stupid wolf unable to fend for himself.

 

“A peace offering? For me?” Sandor asked looking down at his furry companion, a smirk on his face at the absurdity of the moment.

 

She said nothing but kept looking at him in the eyes. 

 

“You’re showing me aren’t you? Telling me I have to apologize, because I’m too stupid to know how to do it myself.” 

 

At this the wolf cocked her head to the side as if it were smiling at him and listened intently.

 

Sandor dropped down on one knee and took the rabbit in his hand, “I don’t think she’s gonna like this very much. You keep it. But I promise I will go with my tail between my legs. I’ll make it right with her.” He handed the rabbit back to the wolf and she took it gently in her mouth. With that she was off again, into the woods where she belonged -- wild and free.

 

_ ‘I’ll go, get down on my knees if I have to and ask her to forgive me.’ _ He said to himself, determined to try something that he had never had to nor wanted to try before. It was a new beginning of unknown consequence.

 

As the first morning light came over the horizon, Sandor was off on horseback, racing home. Alastor knew he would head out in advance, waving him off with a big and hopeful grin as Sandor pushed his horse as hard as he possibly could. There was a new lightness that came with the promise of changing things between them and it made Sandor feel like he was riding the wind. It made him feel like a boy again - happy and free, something he had not been in a very long time. When he thought about it he had never been that way, except perhaps for the first few years of his life. Bolting through the castle Sandor knocked on her door calmly and opened it.

 

She wasn’t there.

 

Feeling a familiar anger flooding back into his veins Sandor ran to the kitchens and began to question those working there. Aggressively. Cowering in the corner one of the women finally found the courage to speak up.

 

“She went with Fiona. They’ve been venturing out of the castle for the last few days.” The girl was shaking as she said it, so Sandor knew it must be true.

 

If there was one thing Sandor was weary of, it was about her being stolen from him by another clan. Fiona wasn’t from his own and he couldn’t be sure of her intentions, nor would he take the chance. It wasn’t against the law to steal a woman and wed her in the West, it happened occasionally during war time -- and she was too much a prize to be stolen from him. Or to get caught up in some kind of conflict and injured, or even killed.

 

Sandor rode a short way out of the small village to the farm he knew Fiona’s family lived. Furious he kicked in the door, his sword raised above his head -- to the sound of girls giggling and chattering. At the sight of him, that of course turned to shrieks and screams-- and crying.

 

Sansa was there alright, seated in the middle of the small one-room house, Fiona and her sisters braiding flowers in her hair. Sansa was doing some needle point and taken completely off guard by his entrance. Sandor didn't have time to think, Sansa immediately got up from her chair and went to him, her hand reaching toward his sword hand her other placed on his chest.

 

“ Mo dhuine. Mo dhuine. Please...” She said, raising her voice above the crying of the women behind her. Sandor could see the fear in her eyes, but the strength as well. 

 

He was stunned. ‘ _ My man. My man.’  _ She was saying in his language. It meant husband, it meant partner -- it meant lover. It was a very strong term of endearment that Sandor had never heard directed toward him before.

 

She slowly and gently moved his sword hand down, so that his weapon was no longer raised, the threat abated. “Let’s go outside.” She whispered to him, leading him by the hand, the scent of the flowers in her hair guiding him out of the house.

 

“Where did you learn those words?” He asked, perhaps too aggressively for she pulled back from him..

 

“Fiona taught me. She said it would please you.” She did her best to brush off his aggression, looking at him in the eyes with a hopeful expression.

 

It was difficult for Sandor to put together all that had just happened now, and he didn’t have to wait long. “You can’t just barge into a house with a sword in your hand.” She said quietly continuing her conversation with him.

 

“I came back and you were gone.” Sandor said simply, still in shock from what he had seen, still feeling the anger slowly leave his body.

 

“You left and told me nothing. Ran off like a … a child.” There was pain in her voice. Sandor could see how hurt she was now, something he hadn’t really experienced before. He’d left her all alone in a place where she knew nobody, didn’t speak the language and had nothing -- she had a right to be angry.

 

He didn’t answer not knowing what words to say, so she continued. “So Fiona did as I asked her, she took me through the village to meet your people and then we would spend our days here with her family Please don’t be angry with her.”

 

Sandor could see the emotions in her bubbling to the surface, but none of them were anger. They were a pallet of emotions Sandor had no name for, neither in the common tongue nor in his own language. His emotions had always been so flat, so black and white. Hers were broad and more complex than Sandor had ever considered human emotions to be. So he did the opposite of what a cunt would do -- he listened.

 

“I had no idea.” She began, almost unable to contain some tears. Tears confused Sandor beyond anything else. He had never had them, not even has his brother had pushed his face into the fire, so it was difficult to know exactly what they meant or why they came to one’s eyes at all. 

 

“Fiona’s brothers were killed in the war with the North. Her father lost an arm, her youngest sister raped by a Northman. And then her friends,” Sansa paused, “so many terrible things happened that I cannot even imagine. But despite all of it she brings me to her home, her family welcomes me...a woman of the North...offers me a seat at their table to share food of which they themselves have barely enough.”

 

It was true, the Northmen had pushed far into his territory and had committed many atrocities. It was not in the Western culture to rape, it was an affront to their few laws and not something done in war time. If any of Sandor’s men were caught doing such a thing, they were executed without question. The North, however, had used tools -- such as rape -- as weapons of war. It had scared his people and deepened the hatred between both sides.

 

Sandor could see the emotions swirling around in her. The last few days apart had changed Sansa just as they had him. It gave him hope. It gave him the strength to become a better man.

 

“I just feel ashamed.” She said finally, though Sandor felt she had no reason to be. “If they can accept me and forgive what my people have done to them -- what my father’s men did to them -- then I must find it in myself to forgive you too.” She looked him in the eyes, searching for something from him. 

 

Then it just blubbered out of him, “I’m sorry Sansa. I didn’t want...I never meant....”

 

He could barely get any words out before she threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around him. She was crying now, heaving into his large chest. Confused by this display, yet oddly humbled by it, Sandor wrapped his arms around her too. It seemed the right thing to do.

 

“I respected him very much you must know that.” Sandor said, finally finding his words. “If there had been another way…” Sandor was shaking, he didn’t know why -- just that the power of the moment had swept him up in a way he was unfamiliar with.

 

_ ‘You can never know how much I wish I had not.’ _ Sandor was saying to himself, the words not quite making it to his lips. But somehow he knew she knew it, that she was absorbing his emotions and that to speak more would not have changed anything.

 

Sansa brought a hand to his mouth to cover it, to quiet him. “We are a promise of peace.” She said through tear filled eyes. “We must show our people that they can live together.”

 

_ ‘She’s almost half my age and yet so much wiser than I am.’  _ Sandor realized. ‘ _ I’ll be lost without her. She’s a ruler and I am the farthest thing from it. If I don’t have her I’ll never be able to make something out of what I’ve won.’  _ Though he did not know her well, Sandor felt deep down that she completed him. Complimented him in a way few could or would have wanted to. He was grateful.

 

Hugging her tighter, Sandor kissed her on top of her head. She was crying harder now than before and it confused him as to why she would still be so upset. 

 

“I don’t want to make you cry.” Sandor said, doing his best to sound soft and gentle,  _ ‘The opposite of what a cunt would do.’ _ He proudly noted to himself. 

 

“It’s not you,” She sniffled into his chest. “I’m just happy that we...that we…”

 

“You cry when you’re happy too?!” He exclaimed, eliciting a small laugh from his bride-to-be. It seemed she could sense from his voice that he was emotionally overwhelmed by this new found fact  -- and found it funny.

 

“Well not  _ all _ the time.” She said, smiling at him.

 

She was actually smiling and Sandor was over the moon. He took his big thumbs and wiped the tears from her cheeks, not sure what to do next -- just content they had overcome this one large obstacle.

 

Then it dawned on him. “I want to show you something.” He said taking her softly by the wrist and leading her to his large war horse. 

 

His red headed lady didn’t fight, nor did she protest. She followed him to the back of the small farmhouse where he had tied up his horse. Stranger was tall, even for a man like Sandor it could be difficult to get in the saddle. Hoisting her up so she could get on the horse Sandor was happy to see she was wearing a dress of the western style. It would make it easier to ride this horse for one, and it suited her for another. Mounting his horse and seating himself in front of her. It caught him off guard how her little arms squeezed around him tight so as to stay balanced atop his giant horse.

 

“Squeeze him tight, he’s not the easiest beast to ride.” He said, thinking more of himself than the horse.

 

She did as she was bid, tightening her legs around the beast and  keeping Sandor in a firm grasp. With a voice command and a small kick, they were off. It was unlike Sandor to not know the next move, he was a man who had seen military success through careful calculation. It seemed that with women there was nothing one could truly calculate, nothing he could predict in advance. It could have been a scary thing, but Sandor was determined to face this uncharted territory with an openness he was not accustomed to. It was a taste of things to come, and it left him smiling despite himself.


	7. Unknown Territory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa finds herself giving into the boyish charms of the Lord of the West.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get fluff in the form of a cute courtship this and next chapter before the push toward the climax (of the story ... no sex yet you naughties ;-))
> 
> With regard to other updates, the next chapter of the War of Southern Occupation is written but now in my lovely beta's hands . So that's a huge damn relief. I hate updating so late.

#  Chapter 7: Unknown Territory

 

##  Sansa

 

It was a beautiful warm fall day, nothing like what she had ever experienced in the North. The grass was still green, the birds still singing and the flowers still blooming -- Sansa liked it. There was a promise of hope to it all, a new beginning that beckoned her. It hadn’t taken so long for her tears to dry atop Sandor’s large war horse, her cheek pressed into his muscular back. Her hands clutched him just below his chest. She couldn’t help but continually adjust her grip to get a better feel of him. 

 

Sansa admonished herself for being so unladylike, feeling a man up like this without his permission...or doing it even with his permission. But given the last week or more of experiences, she had grown quite fond of the male form, so fond in fact that she had been aching to touch it. Sandor’s was, of course, the best specimen she had laid her eyes upon -- his being the most impressive and largest of the male bodies she had seen. He also didn’t seem to notice her fingers moving gently on his upper abs, pressing her chest firmer into his back.  Feeling an unfamiliar, yet pleasurable pull in her woman’s place she quickly moved her thoughts to something that wasn’t his body.

 

_ ‘He’s changed.’  _ That was the first thing Sansa realized when she had spoken to Sandor. After their time apart he was suddenly more tentative, more gentle -- or at least he was trying to be. She wasn’t sure if a man of his size and upbringing could ever be gentle, but she appreciated his effort and trusted his words.

 

_ ‘Nothing will bring Robb back.’ _ She sighed to herself,  _ ‘Things are changing and we need to change them for the better.’ _ Sansa remembered what her mother had told her before leaving Winterfell. That it took great strength to go to the lands of your enemy and persuade him that peace was worth pursuing. 

 

_ ‘Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined it would be so difficult and... perhaps also so rewarding.’  _ She thought as she felt an additional tug at her woman’s place feeling Sandor’s muscles flex under her fingers. Her father had been right about one thing, he did seem to be a very capable man. She blushed as her mind went to naughty thoughts that she couldn’t even visualize yet.

 

Sansa grinned to herself. In truth she had never felt stronger or more in control of her own destiny in her life. She had always been protected and kept away from life, Sandor had been brought up completely the opposite. In order to rule, they had to combine their unique experiences and find a middle ground. He would need to teach her about the harsh realities of life, she would need to teach him to think about the good of others. These last few days alone and taught her a lot about her ability to take hold of a situation and gain wisdom from it. It made her happy. 

 

_ ‘We can learn something from each other. He seems open for that.’ _ She mused gently.

 

Sandor stopped the horse and dismounted. For once she was towering over him on the back of his huge courser.  _ ‘He is somehow quite handsome.’ _ She thought for the first time as she sat there above him, looking at his face from a different angle.  _ ‘Smiling suits him.’ _

 

There was something light about him now, almost boyish in the way he was looking at her and holding his arms out so as to help her down. Sliding off the horse he caught her with ease, again a smile crossing his lips to match her own. She blushed furiously.

 

“What is this place?” Sansa asked him in wonder, trying to avoid the pull of his grey eyes. She had already taken in some of its natural splendor upon their approach and had never seen anything quite like it.

 

It could have been the most beautiful place she had ever seen. They were on a hill overlooking a beautiful green valley. Only a few paces away was a lake, a small waterfall feeding it and a huge tree with full orange leaves. You could see forever, it seemed like the green and the sky never ceased. It was beyond anything Sansa could have imagined on her own.

 

“Oh..it’s just where I come to think.” Sandor answered with a bit of a grin and went to tie up his horse. 

 

The sun was so hot as it beat down on her, but it didn’t matter. Sansa was admiring the scenery, smelling the air and committing this place to memory with all her senses. She had taken a few more paces toward to lake in order to admire it. It was crystal clear and peaceful. Just like the entire place, with the gentle sound of the waterfall in the background, it was serene.

 

The rustling of clothing made Sansa turn, to see Sandor removing his boots. “What are you doing?” She asked a bit of suspicion creeping into her voice.

 

He wasn’t very good at looking innocent, and it had nothing to do with the scarring on his face. Rather it had to do with the way his lips curled up into a roguish grin and how his eyes got this kind of ferociously intelligent sparkle. Somehow it came across as cute...perhaps even charming. “It’s … uh... also where I come on a hot day to swim.” There was a glint in his eyes and Sansa knew it was a sign that he was up to something.

 

“Oh well, I hope you enjoy it.” She said, knowing that she didn’t want to get in the water. It wasn’t very lady like to swim in a lake, or so her septa had told her.

 

Cocking his head to the side questioningly Sandor spoke, “Oh no, it’s the law. A Westerman can’t swim alone in a lake, it’s forbidden.”

 

He was removing his tunic now, his muscled body visible to Sansa’s tratiours eyes. She put her hands on her hips in mock defiance. “Says who?”

 

“Says the lord of this land, me.” He grinned and dropped his kilt. 

 

With a squeak Sansa turned around her hands over her eyes, her skin turning a bright crimson.  _ ‘Oh gods, did I just see his penis? I think I saw it, perhaps….no it couldn’t be…’ _

 

But before she could finish the debate of her eyes and her heart he spoke again, his Westerlander accent coming out more than usual. “Come now lassie, we’re swimmin’. There’s no use gettin’ out of it.” With that he grabbed her over his shoulder and started pulling off her boots. 

 

Sansa was surprised almost into silence, but not quite. “You put me down right now!” She was yelling using her fists to hit him in the back in a vain attempt to work herself free from his solid yet gentle grip. “Sandor! Put me down you...you...you brute.” 

 

A jolly laugh escaped his lips at her final word, “I would advise you take that dress off, it’s just gonna weigh you down.”

 

She was half pleading with him now, “No no I’m perfectly fine with all my clothes on. Now put me down. Please, Sandor!”

 

“Ok then, your choice.” There was this teasing quality to his voice, as if he was just going along with something she stubbornly wanted, when, in reality he was the stubborn one. It reminded her of her brothers, of a happy time long past. With that he threw her rather easily into the water. 

 

All Sansa could think of as she hit the water was how she was absolutely going to kill him when she came back up. Kicking her legs and moving her arms she came up out of the water with a gasp. It was cold, it was shocking to her system and yet perfectly suited for the hot day. Though he was right, her dress did weigh her down and she was quite relieved that, when she did breach the surface, he was right there to hold her, to make sure she wasn’t in any danger.

 

Sandor had her wrapped his his large arms, the two of them together seemed as wide as she was. Her body was almost flush with his own, so much so that she could feel his heat even in the cold water. The Lord of the West wore a juvenile grin on his face at her distressed look, the way her brothers had often had when they were teasing her. But this time it was somehow much cuter, his accent the way he was playing with her. 

 

She smiled despite herself, “Well don’t just stand there,” Sansa began in a mock exasperated tone. “...help me out of this stupid dress.”

 

He barked a laugh at that and easity helped her remove it, a sleeveless white undershirt and her small clothes the only thing shielding her modesty from him. The water was fantastic, not so cold as to give you the shivers but just refreshing on such a hot day. Convinced she was fine on her own Sandor swam in the lake cooling down and moving, as it seemed he liked to keep moving. Or he liked to show off his athleticism. Sansa guess it was a mixture of the two. There was nothing shielding his modesty and it kept making her blush. She couldn’t really see much but just the thought that he was naked was enough to put color in her cheeks.

 

The lake wasn’t so deep where she was, that made it possible to put her feet down and observe the serenity of this hidden little hill from the water. 

 

“Oh I forgot to tell you.” Sandor said, after some time had passed. He was between her and the shore, standing himself, the water teasingly low on his hips. 

 

“What is that?” She asked, wondering if he had another trick of his sleeve.

 

As he moved  closer to her she could see that sheepish grin on his face that she was becoming so fond of. “Well there are monsters in this lake you know. So we need to be careful.” He was half whispering to her, as if the monsters would hear if he said it too loud.

 

“Monsters?” She replied, half concerned and half playing along. Not sure whether he was telling the truth or not.

 

“Oh yes, big ugly scary burnt up ones.” He said with a grin, his accent played up on the words ‘ugly’ and ‘scary.’

 

Sansa giggled at his self deprecating humor. But she continued to play along, despite knowing he was going to do something to tease her again. “Oh really?” She grinned raising an eyebrow.

 

“Um hum.” He answered, coming closer to her. “They say these monsters have a favorite food.” He didn’t wait for her to answer, he narrowed his eyes and dropped his shoulders so he was more in the water. 

 

“I’ve heard it’s pretty little redheads!” With that he growled and leaped toward her. 

 

Squeaking and laughing, Sansa began to swim as fast as she could away from him knowing that she could never out maneuver him, but not caring. The splashing of the water behind her spurred her own, his utterly ridiculous monster noises made her laugh so hard as she hadn’t laughed in years. There was a calming and also flattering feeling that overcame her, knowing that the fierce Warlord of the West found himself content playing ‘water monsters’ with her. 

 

Grabbing her by the ankle, she turned and dunked him in the water, as she had done with her brothers as they were children. It was ironic to her that she had spent so long wishing to grow up that she had forgotten how nice it was to be carefree and happy. They pushed each other around in the water a bit longer, Sandor nibbling at her neck whilst making monster noises. His beard tickled her, his strong arms felt good around her body and as she gripped his chest hair to steady herself she felt the not so unfamiliar pull of arousal. 

 

_ ‘We should wait for the wedding. _ ’ She thought almost sadly as their eyes met. 

 

She hugged him, her little arms wrapped around his huge neck, it was comical somehow but it felt right -- for the first time in a long time.

 

“Let’s dry off.” He offered, swimming them both back toward the end of the lake.

 

As she got out of the water he turned his head,  _ “I’m not lookin’. _ ” He said teasing her for her attempts at modesty in the short time they had known one another.

 

“Sure you’re not.” She teased back as she sat under the shade tree and leaned against it.

 

“Well fair’s fair I’d say, so you shouldn’t be lookin’ either.” Sandor said to her, the surface of the water at his waist. 

 

Rolling her eyes she turned her head, but not enough that she couldn't see him out of her peripheral vision. She swallowed hard at what she was very sure she saw, no more debate in her mind, _ ‘Oh gods. He’ll never fit.’ _

 

She could feel herself blushing at the thought of their wedding night. He was so large there was no doubt in her mind that it would be painful to take him fully in her woman’s place. Yet, her body was responding to him, as if it found the challenge of it far more enticing than he he been smaller. Her nipples tingled at the thought of touching him between his legs.

 

“You looked you naughty lassie.” He said with a grin, his kilt now on.

 

Sansa shook herself from her short and dirty daydream. “I did not.” She lied, not looking him in the eye.

 

“Ohhh you looked  _ and _ you’re lying to me.” He said with a rather roguish grin. Sandor came to sit next to her. His eyes were so playful, his demeanor so relaxed. She was so very grateful.

 

“You want to know how I know?” He asked her.

 

Raising an eyebrow definitely, Sansa waited for his explanation.

 

“When you think something naughty, you blush here.” His finger caressed both sides of her cheeks, high on the cheekbones. “And when you are embarrassed you blush here.” He stroked her neck softly. “When you’re angry...and trust me I’ve seen that one close up, you blush here” This time his finger hovered over her chest, not touching her a she had expected but making her breath deeply in anticipation that he would..

 

“But how can you know that?” She asked, surprised that one could know such things after only a few hours’ contact.

 

“The first rule of being a good swordsman, know your opponent.” He smiled, satisfied he had been right.

 

“I’m not your opponent though.” She said surprised at his use of the word.

 

At that Sandor leaned back on the tree, relaxing into it. “Oh I wouldn’t say that. You’re braver than most men I can tell you. Never been slapped by a man before.” He paused thinking back a moment, “Can’t say I’ve been slapped by a woman either come to think of it.”

 

At that Sansa blushed slightly it was a nice compliment even if he didn’t use exactly the right words.

 

“I deserved it.” He said, staring out onto the valley. “I still feel it on my cheek too. You’ve got quite an arm there.” He added, glancing over at her out of the side of his eyes.

 

“Really?” Sansa was concerned, she must have really hit him hard. She turned on her knees and moved to look closer at his face, the good side of it where she had hit him.

 

Seeming to like the attention he stayed perfectly still while she inspected his cheek, trying to find the bruise. “Perhaps a bit of a kiss might make the pain more bearable.” He offered, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

 

Laughing and rolling her eyes, Sansa pushed him in the chest. “You are really insufferable.” She said knowing she had been duped, half frustrated and half flattered that he’d go to such lengths to have her close to him.

 

Seeing that his eyes were rather unyielding she gave into him, giving him a peck on the cheek. She could see he was rather pleased with himself, smirking at his cute but petty little games she sat down next to him, reclining on the tree.

 

What had started as a complete disaster was quickly turning into something far more brilliant than she could have ever imagined. She’d never been in love before, didn’t know what it felt like or how to handle it. She couldn’t be sure if the growing warmth both in her chest and between her legs was indeed love, but what she did know was it was uncharted territory. She grinned as the colors of the sky slowly began to change, knowing that she was more than willing to explore this new found feeling with the Lord of the West.


	8. Her and Her Bloody Modesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor gets put into an uncomfortable situation, in which he realizes how much Sansa means to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It has been a while, I know. Sorry....I've been battling work travel, bbqs on the weekends and allergies. Argh! I hope to return to a normal schedule of writing in the next week or two. For now this chapter is complete, though there may be some typos. Just point them out.
> 
> Also the War of Southern Occupation has a new chapter, but I need to rest and review some of the more difficult parts. But it's being done! Cheers from Bulgaria!

#  Chapter 8: Her and Her Bloody Modesty

##  Sandor

 

The day had been going better than Sandor could have ever dreamed of. She was laughing, smiling, even teasing with him and he just couldn’t get enough of it. Sandor’s childhood had been stolen from him, first by his brother and then by the war. It wasn’t until she had come into his life, so pure of spirit and so young at heart -- that he had realized how much he had missed out on. Sandor wasn’t given to laughing or teasing, sure he and Alastor had a good relationship -- but it wasn’t the same as now. Her smile had unlocked something that he had long tucked away, it had brought to the surface a young man who had been forgotten. 

 

_ ‘I’m falling in love with her.’  _ Sandor realized as she sat next to him under the big oak tree by his favorite lake. And if he wasn’t mistaken, she was kind of falling for him too. Alastor’s little piece of advice on not being a total cunt had actually worked, and the old man clearly deserved a bit of the credit for Sandor’s new found charms. 

 

_ ‘Gods I’d love to have her under this tree. Watching her hair grace the sunset and her perk little teets bouncing up and down while she’s riding me.’  _ Just the very thought would have been enough to get him off while he wanked. _ ‘I’ll keep that one for later. _ ’ He grinned.

 

Seeing that she had chosen to stay seated so close next to him, he decided to see how far he could go.  _ ‘I won’t force her to do anything she doesn’t want to.’  _ Sandor reminded himself.

 

Sliding down a bit Sandor yawned, stretched his arm out and put it arm around her shoulders. He couldn’t tell if she felt it was natural or not, just the fact that she hadn’t hit it away was already a positive sign. He was pleased to see that she kind of drifted down with him, now laying down on the grass her head resting on his chest, her free hand on his stomach. He enjoyed taking in the landscape with her in silence, and the feel of her warm body on his even more. She was everything he wasn’t, soft, smooth, tiny -- beautiful.

 

Sandor pulled a flask out of the pocket of his kilt, pulled the cork with his teeth and took a good sip. Then offered it to her. Sansa took the flask in her hand and wrinkled up her nose at the smell of the liquid inside. Then, to his surprise, tentatively took a sip.

 

She started coughing. “Oh there you go, it’s always like that the first time.” He grinned and offered her the flask again. The second time it went down a bit easier and she settled back in next to him snuggled in the crook of his arm watching the colors of the sky change over the horizon.

 

Sandor wasn’t sure how many times they had passed the flask back and forth, just that when she spoke out of the blue...that she had probably had a bit more to drink than she was used to.

 

“So tell me…” She started, a bit of a slur to her words. “Why do Westermen wear nothing under their kilts?” As she asked she played a bit with the hem of his own garment, sending a pulse between his legs that would set of a series of very naughty events in motion if he didn’t do something.

 

Clearing his throat somewhat uncomfortably he started, “Well it’s just...uh... traditional.” He didn’t really know the answer, but he was kind of curious to see where this was going to go. 

 

_ ‘My drunk little wolf.’ _ He mused to himself as her hand went a little bit under his kilt. He swallowed hard and tried not to act on his baser impulses.

 

She moved her hand a bit further up his leg, his cock becoming slightly more hard with every millimeter she neared it. “But aren't you afraid it might fall off or ride up?”

 

_ ‘Gods she’s gonna kill me.’  _ Sandor’s head was screaming, his body begging him to satisfy its need for her.

 

He answered her question, a bit nervous as to what the outcome might be. “Well...if you aren't ashamed of what’s under there, then there’s no need to worry.”

 

“What do you mean by that?” She asked, her voice so innocent he could swear she was doing this to him on purpose.

 

It was like explaining sex to a five year old, how much should he say and how much should he not? Sandor was nervous, never having ever been in a situation quite like this. A pretty highborn maid with her hand up his kilt, drunk, asking him all the right questions to get her fucked under this tree.

 

Breathing in deeply, Sandor did his best to answer in an even and unbiased way. “Well … um… usually the lassies like a...uh...a big one. And Westermen are known for making...uh...ladies smile.”

 

“Ummm.” Was all that came out of her mouth as her hand kept traveling between his legs, a bit of a grin on her face. He was sweating now, like a green boy about to make out with his first girl. Her hand was leaving a warm trail on his leg, his cock nearly at its full length, his instincts screaming to be given into.

 

_ ‘This isn’t right.’  _ Sandor snapped himself out of his pheromone induced frenzy. 

 

He couldn’t let her do something with him when she had been drinking too much whiskey. He wanted her to enjoy their first time, not feel like he had taken advantage of her.  _ ‘What kind of a man have I become?’  _ Normally he would have jumped at the chance to fuck a pretty girl no matter what her state, but Sansa was different. Sansa was turning him into something more than he was before. 

 

Grabbing hold of her arm he said, “How about we leave that for another time pretty girl? But really, you can touch my cock any time just not when you’re…” His voice trailed off as a light snore escaped her lips.

 

_ ‘And just when I was being a fucking gentleman for once.’  _ He laughed to himself.  _ ‘Well she can’t say I wasn’t honorable tonight. Her and her bloody modesty.’  _ He said it as if it were a curse.

 

Sandor looked at her a moment, her mouth slightly open her little flush face on his chest. She was perfectly at peace, drooling lightly on him as she slept.

 

_ ‘I could get used to his.’ _ He smiled picturing a future that he had never even conceived as possible. 

 

_ ‘Well ….somebody does have to look after her tonight. Make sure she doesn’t get sick or something.’ _ At this thought a devilish smirk crossed his face. 

 

Scooping her up, Sandor wrapped Sansa in her dress just any which way he could and got on his horse with her. Not a particularly easy task, but he managed without falling over with her in his arms. It wouldn’t do if either of them broke a leg at this juncture. 

 

Positioning his young bride-to-be so as to more easily take the reigns, Sandor couldn’t help but steal a small kiss from her rosy lips. He wouldn’t be a complete scoundrel tonight, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be one in the morning. With that naughty thought and a grin to match, he spurred Stranger back to the Keep.


	9. Dirty Promises Bring Dirty Wars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A difficult morning becomes even more so with bad news from the South.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to get this chapter written, it was just flowing like mad. I hope you enjoy this turning point for our characters and...once again... thanks to everybody who weighed in on this story at the beginning. I had no idea where it was going, but with your help I was able to establish a clear path. Hugs and warm fuzzies!

##  Sansa

 

A ray of light hit Sansa’s face, waking her from her deep slumber and introducing her to the worst headache she had ever had in her life. Her head was pounding, her eyes aching, her body disoriented.

 

_ ‘Oh gods what happened?’  _ She asked herself as she moved the covers over her head to block the light out.

 

She wracked her ailing brain for the last thing she could remember. It was painful to think, hard to recall everything, but she had been with Sandor under the big oak tree near the lake. She had felt happy, content even. They had been watching the sunset, then her mind went blank. She could taste the stale taste of the alcohol on her breath, then it clicked,  _ ‘The whiskey.’ _

 

Rolling her eyes she shifted under the covers and rubbed up against something she wasn’t expecting. Slowly and painfully she opened her eyes to see the sleeping, huge, hairy body of Sandor Clegane next to her. A peaceful expression on his face.

 

She screamed, sitting up in bed so fast that her head was reeling from the pain.

 

This in turn woke him up, but only a little. Groggily reaching over with his arm to pull her close he was mumbling, “Now don’t go wakin’ me up so damned early lassie. Come back to bed.”

 

It was only then, as he reached for her that Sansa realized she didn’t have any clothes on, she was topless --- and now that she peaked under the covers she didn’t have anything covering her woman’s place either.

 

“Oh gods!” She yelped, pulling the sheets up over her breasts. “Did we? I mean...did you? Uhh…” She was so disdraught at the thought of what could have happened she couldn't even get the words out.

 

“Did we what?” Sandor asked, now slowly waking up, looking at her through half sleepy eyes.

 

“You know.” She said turning bright red at the thought, “Were we uh….”

 

When it finally did click Sandor chuckled and propped himself up on some pillows, his eyes filled with mischief. “Did we fuck? Is that what you’re askin’?”

 

Something in his voice told Sansa he was being crude on purpose, just to make her blush more. It seemed he liked her skin a fiery tinge of red. But honestly she couldn’t be a brighter shade even if she had tried. She was  _ naked _ , next to  _ him _ \-- he was presumably also naked, his chiseled upper torso free of clothing, the hair that covered it ending teasingly under the blankets, hinting at his nudity. Sansa was squirming so much she couldn’t help but wiggle in her spot both angry and uncomfortable at the same time.

 

Satisfied she was sufficiently wound up Sandor spoke, “Trust me love, if we had you would be feelin’ it down there.” His eyes shifted to where her woman’s place approximately was under the sheets  and it made her blush again. “But seein’ as you had a bit too much whiskey I decided it was best to keep a close eye on you.” His voice danced over the word ‘close’ as he eyed her.

 

She didn’t feel any different down there, so she was relieved. She didn’t want to be drunk her first time being intimate with a man and not remember anything. It was supposed to special after all, and it would have been cruel to take it away from her. 

 

_ ‘At least he seems to be quite honorable.’  _ She smiled to herself, a strange feeling building in the pit of her stomach.  

 

All at once Sansa stopped her line of thought, admonishing herself for thinking of such things before their marriage in the spring.  _ ‘He is quite nice physically — even charming — but you can’t let your body dictate what your mind knows is right.’ _

 

Before she could finish her thoughts Sandor wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, spooning her with only a sheet between her bare bum and his rather large manhood. She froze, her body stiffening. 

 

“Now now, don’t be pretending that you aren't a little curious about some things. Like what’s under me kilt perhaps” He whispered into her ear, his beard tickling her skin and sending waves through her body.

 

“We must wait until the wedding. It’s tradition.” She said in protest, though not pushing him away from her body either. She rather liked his attentions and the feeling of his capable form next to hers — against hers.

 

He was teasing her now, she could hear that tell tale sign in his voice. “Oh are you so sure? You were askin’ me all kinds of naughty questions about... _ it _ .” He nudged her bum with his half erect manhood and she squeaked, eliciting a small laugh from him.

 

Now she was just embarrassed, she turned around, still in his arms, so she was face-to-face with the warrior Lord of the West. “I did nothing of the sort!” She exclaimed, hautigly.

 

His arms shifted to her waist and a smile crept across his face, “Ohhh but you did. You wanted to touch it, you even spied it when I came out of the lake you naughty little lassie.” He was playing up his accent now and she couldn’t help but giggle a bit. 

 

She couldn’t deny that she was curious about him, about what made men different from women down there. Something about it made her ache in places she had never ached before in her life. 

 

Before she could say anything in protest he kissed her. It was a gentle kiss, one that was more of a question than a demand. Kiss him back and allow him to continue, push him away and he would stop. She knew it instinctively, smiled that he was going out of his way to make her comfortable. Closing her arms around his neck she kissed him back, finding a fascination with the feel of his lips on hers. The scarred side was rough and it gave her goosebumps down her back. The smooth side was tender and pliable, making her moan into his mouth.

 

He deepened the kiss slowly, orienting himself over her, a hand under her head. It took her a moment to notice that the sheet separating them had mysteriously slipped away, in its place the rough hair of his chest tickled her body, rubbing tantalizingly against her nipples. This moment was intoxicating, the way they kissed and how their bodies felt against one another. It would pull her in if she let it, it would take her over if she didn’t stop it.

 

Reluctantly she broke their kiss and made sure to stare into his eyes. “We promised not before the wedding.”

 

Though she felt he could sense her sadness and stopping the whole thing, he stared at her hungrily to see how serious she really was. Then he spoke, “I promised your father I wouldn’t take your maidenhead without your permission.” He corrected, “So I won’t.” His eyes were searching hers, ripping through her thoughts and delving into her feelings. Once he found what he was looking for he smirked and began to kiss her along the jawline, “But there are  _ so _ many things we can do that don’t involve me using…”

 

She had been so set on looking him in the eye, so distracted by his skillful kissing that she had not noticed Sandor had raised up on his hands over her. As he finished his sentence, pulling his lips away from her neck, his eyes flashed toward his manhood and her eyes followed. 

 

Gasping at the sight of it she swallowed hard.  _ ‘This will never work, it’s far too big.’  _ She had never seen a man’s erection before, but even with nothing to compare it to Sansa knew why he wore his kilt with no concerns. Engorged to its fullest length and breadth, its tip was smooth and rounded, red and glistening with moisture. The shaft was almost as large, traveling from the head and ending in a nest of dark hair.  _ ‘I can’t even close my hand around it.’ _

 

He wore an amused look on his face when she finally ripped her eyes away from his manhood. She could not take him, she knew that -- the very thought scared her. However, he had mentioned something about ‘other things’. “What do you mean ‘many things’?” 

 

Sansa had asked tentatively, not knowing what to expect, just knowing she wanted to feel him close to her and keep her maidenhead.

 

“Well…” He said roughly, gripping her thighs and pulling her down so she was laying flat on her back. “A Westerman has many instruments at his disposal.” 

 

There was a knowing smile on his face as dipped his nose between her legs and gave her a long whiff. Sansa’s eyes widened,  _ ‘What could he possibly want to …’ _

 

Her question was answered almost immediately when laid on his stomach, and put his lips to her woman’s place. He had begun to make lapping noises as his tongue, so soft and gentle, had begun to explore her folds, then push inside. 

 

She pulled back at this, looking at him as if to remind him of his promise. He merely smiled, “Don’t worry pretty girl, I’ll be careful.”

 

“And what of your pleasure?” She asked, almost hoping he would stop when he thought she didn’t know what to do in return.

 

He laughed from between her legs, the reverberations felt in her lower abdomen. “This is my pleasure.” 

 

With that he resumed kissing and licking at her woman’s place. With slight ‘mmms’ and ‘uhhs’ to be heard passing his rather busy lips. Breathing harder than she ever had, Sansa layed back on the bed, her hands gripping the sheets. She had never felt anything like this before, had never heard of this from her Septa as a normal sexual practice between a man and his wife. But try as she might to resist it, Sansa found herself giving into her husband-to-be. His beard tickled her inner thighs, the warmth of his mouth covered her down there almost completely. Sandor’s tonge lavished attention on her opening and on a particular point at the top. She moaned rather wantonly as he passed over it again and again, feeling him smile into the apex of her thighs. 

 

“Oh gods!” She gasped, her mouth no longer her own. Her hips rolling into his face, begging him for more without really knowing why. 

 

She passed a hand over his hair, eliciting a moan of approval from her partner. Her legs were spreading wider, her head tipping back. He was possessing her with his mouth, forcing his will upon her with the deliberate and practiced strokes of his tongue. 

 

Something indescribably was building inside of her, something amazing.  She was squeezing her legs together, ready to give her body to whatever was happening. It was close, it was within reach -- then the door to Sandor’s chambers flung open. His head came up from between her thighs immediately, a murderous look in his eye. 

 

The captain of the guard and Maester Luwin rushed in. Her Maester must have arrived only recently, he looked worn and weathered. The captain had a paper in his hand, both of them looked concerned — on edge at the very least. As they began to understand what exactly they had walked in on, the two men’s expressions couldn’t have been more diametrically opposed. Maester Luwin had a shocked and abhorrent look on his face, while Sandor’s captain’s face held a toothy lopsided grin on his face. 

 

Sandor pulled a sheet over her nakedness, turning to the men and standing up from the bed, not caring if they saw him in a full state of arousal. She could see by the look on his face and his posture that he was so mad he was beyond words, his fists clenching — the veins in his neck bulging.

 

Then all hell broke loose, both the Maester and the Captain began talking— more like pleading actually. One in the common tongue, one in the language of the West. It was a cacophony of words and pleas and concern as they both bided for Sandor’s attention grabbing some kind of letter and attempting to drown the other one out. 

 

“Silence!” Sandor bellowed over the two men. Then grabbing a sheet from the bed and wrapping it around his waist he continued, “This had better be good.” He pointed to his captain, allowing him to speak first. 

 

Sansa sat in the bed, her sheet pulled up to her chest trying to figure out what in the world was going on. Of course she could read facial expressions but that wasn’t enough to really know what was going on. Though whatever they wanted to say was bad news the lines of concern that formed on Sandor’s forehead were enough to make that clear.

 

“Maester Luwin.” She said from the bed, “What’s happened?”

 

The Maester came to her, a bit uncomfortable that only a sheet covered her, but he came to the bed anyway. Trying to look at her but look away at the same time Maester Luwin spoke, “Well uh...you know it’s rather complicated to say.”

 

Sansa rolled her eyes, impatient with his stuttering. “All I can say...is …” Her Maester had a worried, almost scared look on his face, “...he’s coming.”

 

Cocking her head to the side in utter confusion she asked, “Who?”

 

“My brother.” Sandor said from a few paces away. He held a letter in his hand, the words in their language, gaelic writing that had a completely different alphabet than the Common Tongue. 

 

_ ‘So he can read.’  _ Sansa admonished herself for thinking him a brute in the beginning, feeling slightly ashamed.

 

“I don’t understand.” She said, looking at Sandor with concern written all over her face.

 

Sandor was crushing the letter in his fist, anger and worry etched into his marred face. “It seems your father has promised you to two men.” He shot Maester Luwin a murderous look.  “Did you know anything about this?”

 

Sansa couldn’t blame Maester Luwin for feeling fear, her betrothed looked as though he would rip the older man limb from limb if he didn’t answer the way he wanted. Taking a moment to collect himself, the older man spoke, “Well it’s...uh….complicated.”

 

“Oh really?” Sandor answered, crossing the room in only a couple of strides, now face-to-face with the Maester. “Well then use  _ simple _ words.” 

 

Shaking in fear the Maester began, “Lord Stark did promise the Baratheons a bride from his house. This was...uh...many years ago mind you as his Grace was still alive. His son Joffrey was to marry a Stark.”

 

Sandor had raised an eyebrow, Sansa was transfixed on the older man. “But he never said which one.” Sandor said, his mind going through all of the possibilities of what that meant.

 

Sansa’s body went limp at the realization, “And the royal family assumed it would be the oldest. Why was I never told of this?”

 

Maester Luwin turned to her, “Because it was said to Robert Baratheon unofficially, no documents drafted, nothing recorded. I only happened to be there during this exchange.”

 

Sandor spoke up, “Now my older brother is on his way here with a Lannister army, to take you by force.” She could see the anger in his eyes, some burning fury that she could not place. “He pinned this letter to a murdered man of our clan and had the horse bring him to the Keep. It says that if I have sullied you, the Lannisters will give you to him. If I have not, you are to be married in the spring.”

 

Sansa’s eyes widened at this, her face flushed with anger at the whole situation. “Dirty promises bring dirty wars.” She said, then turned her eyes to Sandor, “What will we do?”

 

A smile flashed quickly across his lips at the fact that she wanted to stay. She had pleased him and she liked that. Sansa wanted to please him, had grown fond of him, wanted to be his wife. 

 

“We’ll stay and fight. I will not trade you like cattle.” Sandor said, extending his hand to hers. She took it, rubbing her thumb over his knuckles. 

 

“But won’t he destroy you and your men?” She asked. “Westermen aren't good at defending structures.”

 

Sander shot her a surprised look, “Well not really, no.”

 

“Father was right then, and I guess your brother knows this.” She replied, her mind racing to find a solution. 

 

“We don’t have much time.” Maester Luwin cut in, “Gregor is no more than two hours from the Keep, it’s bearly enough time to evacuate.”

 

At this Sandor’s captain spoke up, and both he and Sandor began to argue. It was heated, clearly Sandor wanted to stay and face the army despite the odds, while his captain was telling him the contrary. While they went back and forth, Sansa racked her brain using all she knew about the politics of Westeros to figure out a solution. They would not win this day on force, but if she could win him some time to escape, perhaps they had a chance.

 

“I have it.” She said. Then noticing that nobody had heard her she raised her voice, “I have it!”

 

All the men in the room turned their eyes to her, she tried not to blush as she wrapped the sheet haphazardly around her body and went to the dust covered desk Sandor had in his room. She looked at Sandor and motioned him to come to the desk, “I need you to write something, but in Gaelic incase it is intercepted. You,” she looked at Maester Luwin, “You will be my witness to this.” She passed him a murderous glance, one that warned against any further treachery or misleading.

 

A puzzled look on his face Sandor took a seat at the desk, not asking her anything. Finding a blank piece of parchment and stirring the ink, he looked at her to signal he was ready.

 

Sansa began her dictation, “Dear Father, It has come to my attention that you have made a terrible mistake by promising me to the Baratheons and to the Cleganes. You have always taught me to take hold of my mistakes, to own them and make up for what I have done.”

 

“Not so fast.” Sandor said, his hand moving feverishly, “I can’t translate so quickly.”

 

She smiled, knowing he was not just strong but smart too. He looked at her once he had finished. “Now they threaten the West, they mean to claim me as theirs. But my home, and my heart, is here with Sandor. I will go to King’s Landing a maid, to honor your horrendous obligation to them, but I do not intend to marry. I beg you to join forces with Sandor, to help him bring me home. Yours.” She stopped a moment, choked up by her own words. “I’ll sign it.”

 

She took the pen from Sandor and signed it, only catching his eyes after she had done so. He was astonished, surprised and very much in love. 

 

“Sansa. I can’t run away, I need to stay and fight.” Sandor pleaded, his hand clasped over hers. “I’m no coward.”

 

“You need to live to fight another day.” She said to him. “The Lannisters are honorable enough to marry me off in the spring. Come get me before then.” She smiled and winked, as if it were some sort of bet between friends as to whether he could storm the Red Keep or not.

 

“But you’ll start a war!” Maester Luwin argued. 

 

“Father started the war.” She interjected, her eyes narrowing at the Maester. “We plan to put it right. Just not the way the Lannisters think we do.” She looked at Sandor again, she was pleading with him.

 

He was conflicted, that was obvious to see. But after a long moment, he nodded. She smiled.

 

“Captain.” She looked over at Sandor’s man, “You and Maester Luwin must take this to Winterfell immediately. Ride all night and all day.”

 

A big smile crossed the captain’s face as he took the letter from her, he nodded.

 

“Leave us.” She said to the two men.

 

When the two men were gone, Sansa turned to Sandor and embraced him. His heart was beating like crazy, his hug tight around her body. “I don’t want to leave you. Especially not with Gregor. He…” Sandor trailed off as Sansa put a finger to is lips.

 

“Promise you’ll come for me. Swear it!” She commanded, lifting her hand to his face and cuping it.

 

“On my life.” Sandor choked out. “If I’m not there by spring, then I’m dead.”

 

He took a dagger from the desk. Now that Sansa looked around, the room was full of weapons. Truly the bedroom of an unwed warlord. Piercing his palm, he took her hand and did the same. She winced only a little. Then he took her both their hands and pressed them together. “This is how we swear an oath in the West. A blood oath now, I will not rest until it is fulfilled.”

 

They kissed, Sansa hoped it wouldn’t be their last. “Go.” She said. “He’ll be here soon and you should leave nothing for him.”

 

She could see how hard it was for him to retreat, how much it hurt. But she was happy he saw the utility of it all -- the bigger plan. She prayed to every god she could that her father would do the right thing, that he would stop the Lannisters from snatching her away from her current betrothed. Sansa pushed him to the door, as if confirming it was right what he was doing. That she approved of his actions, though some would perceive them as craven. She would never forget the look on his face as he turned and called his men to raise the alarm, it was one of a ruthless determination that had brought him his lands and peace for his people. 

 

_ ‘He is a good man. A strong man. He will come for me.’  _ She thought as he shouted out commands in his language, taking one final look at her before disappearing into the bowels of the Keep.

 

The Keep was full of chaos as she went back to her room to fix her hair and get dressed. Sansa knew she would have to play the part, that she would have to do what was necessary to keep this marriage at bay until Sandor could rally the troops. It seemed like a long shot, like something so far out of reach and yet all she could do was hope for him to come save her. He was not a knight in shining armor like in the stories she had read as a child, nor was he beautiful like the songs she had grown up singing. But he was kind, attentive, strong and he loved her. 

 

_ ‘That’s all that matters, and I love him too.’  _ Her heart swelled at the thought.

 

Enough time had passed that an eerie silence had fallen over the Keep. She knew Sandor was gone, knew his clan -- and the other clans -- had vacated it. Leaving her there and alone. Fixing her dress one more time in the mirror, it was of the Western style and more comfortable for long rides, she went into the barn and readied her horse. Things were so mechanical all of the sudden, how she mounted her horse, sat in the saddle and waited at the gates of the keep. 

 

She was scared, there was no other way to describe the churning of her stomach as she held her head high and waited. The wind whipped her hair around, filled her nostrils with scent of fresh green grass. Her mind was blank, devoid of fear. Sansa was only focused on getting this over with. Fulfilling her part of the bargain to buy Sandor enough time to get to safety.

 

She didn’t have to wait long. The sound of the army approaching could be heard from far away. She could hear the clinking of armor and the hooves of the horses before she could see them properly. The man out in front, the mountain of a man in armor, was surly Sandor’s brother. Before Sandor she had never seen a man so tall or so broad, but the man that came at her now could not be mistaken or anything other than a Clegane. 

 

Sansa steadied her horse, staring at the man across from her. Gregor Clegane removed his helmet at the sight of her, once he had realized she stood in front of the castle alone and he would be unopposed. Handing the huge metal thing off to his squire, he sauntered his horse toward her. What struck Sansa first about this man was that she did not like the look in his eyes. There was something evil there. Something that made her hair stand on end.

 

“Well well, my brother did get himself a fine little fire cunt to get his rocks off on.” He said more at her than to her. “You are wasted on that limp dick.”

 

Unmoved Sansa began, “Your orders are to take me to King’s Landing where I am to meet the King.” She paused for emphasis, “My future husband.”

 

Gregor snorted, walking his horse around hers as if to take in every angle and curve she had. “You’re saying my brother didn’t touch a hair on your head? Then just left you here at the first sign of trouble.” He shook his head at her condescendingly. 

 

Sansa was furious, she could feel the flush of anger creeping up her neck, her hand on the reigns of her horse tighten. “My maidenhead is none of your business.”

 

Before she could continue he cut in, “Sandor always was weak. Ran like a little girl every time there was trouble.”

 

Sansa couldn’t believe what he was saying. Sandor was strong, brave and the man who had expanded the territories of the West. Something wasn’t adding up. She let her anger boil over a bit, “Enough with this. Take me to the King. And don’t forget who you’re talking to -- I’m of a mind to have his Grace put you in your place.”

 

At this he laughed. “Put me in my place huh? I’d be very careful how you address me girly. Might just be that I slip into your tent at night and fuck you bloody.”

 

His threat was not one to be taken lightly, Sansa could see that from the intensity of his dark black eyes.  _ ‘He’s nothing like his brother, nothing at all. He’s a monster clad in the garbe of a knight.’ _

 

“You do not frighten me Clegane.” She said, despite her fear, staring him straight in the eye. “It’s your word against mine, and I don’t think you would want to start a war for the King. Good dogs do as they’re told.”

His hand flew and connected with her jaw, the shock of it made Sansa’s head turn. Her nostrils flared, but she turned back to him -- a challenging look in her eye.

 

“Let’s go.” Gregor said to her and his squire. “Loot the castle and set it on fire.”

 

Sansa glared a hole into the back of Gregor’s head as she followed him to meet the army. He would pay for his treachery, she would see to that -- though she did not yet know how. She looked back over her shoulder to a ridge where she thought Sandor and his men may have escaped to. 

 

_ ‘Please hurry.’  _ Was all she could think as she turned her eyes ahead to the men in front of her. 

 


	10. A She-Wolf in King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa fight their own battles, all the while fighting against the powers that be to be together again.

#  Chapter 9: A She-Wolf in King’s Landing

##  Sandor

Anxiety coursed through Sandor’s veins for the first time he could remember as he watched their exchange through his spyglass safely atop a far away hill. He could barely make out what was going on, but had seen enough to enrage him. The sight of his brother, Gregor, was usually enough to get his blood to pump so hard his veins popped out of his neck, to watch him slap his wife-to-be, was enough to make him kill a man without a second thought. 

 

_ ‘You’ll pay for that.’ _ Sandor promised his brother from the cover of the forest, his stomach twisting with the guilt of leaving her behind.

 

He had always been able to act out on his rage, hit something, destroy something, kill somebody -- but this was different. In order to win against the Lannisters, and his brother, Sandor would have to dig deep. He would have to adapt in ways he had not considered before. Ripping his eyes away from the smoke that had begun billowing from his Keep, Sandor went back to the clearing where the clan chiefs were meeting. If fighting his brother hand-to-hand would be the most difficult perceived fight on his life, then this one with the clan chiefs would be the second. 

Sandor’s father had always said that the reason the Westernmen had never advanced in the ways other peoples of Westeros had was because of the culture of the clans. Each chief had his or her own leanings, motivations, personalities and desires to make life easy or difficult depending on the situation. There were seven chiefs in the West, Sandor heading up the Clegane Clan -- also considered the first amongst equals. But just because his father had secured this title for the clan, and Sandor had continued to gain land with authority for the Westermen, did not mean it would be easy to persuade them to assault King’s Landing -- to combine forces with the North and overthrow the sitting King. 

 

_ ‘Give me your wisdom.’ _ Sandor prayed to his young she-wolf. She had shown so much quick thinking and bravery that he was ashamed to face his fellow chiefs. Yet he had to -- needed to garner their support.

 

The chiefs were standing in the circle, some of their warriors around. Anything the chiefs talked about was open for all who cared to listen, the Westermen were egalitarian in this sense. It was a tactic to sway the crowd more than the chiefs, let them see the error of their ways or the flaws in their plans. It could also work against Sandor though, giving his rivals a chance to exploit weaknesses in public, to shame or threaten him.

 

Sandor entered the circle where the chiefs stood, a nervousness overtaking his senses.. All eyes were on him, a silence enveloping the woods in a manner he was not accustomed to. They were waiting for him to speak, a right he would not get to enjoy for very long.

 

“Brothers and Sisters. The Keep burns and the Lannisters have stolen my bride.” His voice bellowed through the clearing, loud enough for all to hear. “I have made an oath, a blood oath to bring her back -- to answer this challenge both Gregor and the Lannisters have made to our right.” He showed his hand for all to see, the place where he had pierced it still fresh on his palm.”We must meet Lord Stark in the Riverlands, then storm Kings Landing.”

 

At this the whole circle broke out into shouting, yelling and gesturing. The voices of the chiefs mixed with the sounds coming from their fellow clansmen. For any normal person unaccustomed to the ways of the West, one would find this aggressive and confronting. For Sandor, he felt it good they were not all in agreement against him. He was asking them to join with the enemy, to fight a force they had never battled before, for a woman they did not know, for a claim to land they had only just made.

 

_ ‘Don’t fall apart on me.’ _ Sandor hoped as he watched the bickering of the chiefs. 

 

Observation was key, Sandor’s father had always told him this. It was one thing to be bigger and stronger than the others, but it was another thing to divine the desires of their minds. To know their next move in a battle of the wits or of the hands was the way to win a battle. He had used this to his advantage against the North, persuaded the Clans to join together in a push for more lands. He had lead them through the right path, but Westerman alliances usually fell apart at some point. Sandor watched with heightened interest, hoping now was not the time -- knowing the Gregor counted on this fact.

 

Finally the voice of the opposition emerged, it was Gareth from clan Campbell. He was a plump old man, more in his cups than on the battlefield these days. But his men fought hard, their support had been instrumental in their success against the North. Sandor listened intently.

 

“Why should we help you settle old family scores and squabble over a woman? I say good riddance to the Stark bitch and feel lucky it’s only the Keep that’s burnin’ on the account a’ her!”

 

At this some of Sandor’s guard drew their swords, a sign of dissention. Gareth was trying to rile him up, draw him out and make him angry. Calling his woman a bitch was certainly making it difficult for Sandor to remain calm -- his fist clenched at his side so hard his nails were about to draw blood from his palms.

 

Moire of the Anderson clan answered his words, as Sandor knew she would. “If you want to stay here like a big fat baby man and get pushed around by the South and so be it.” The crowd chuckled at her words, knowing them to depict Gareth accurately. “But I’m gonna go out there and fight. To show those bastards they can’t come ‘round here stealing our women or burning our houses.”

 

At this there were several sounds of agreement mixed with some negatives. There was a split, four against three and Sandor needed more than that to do anything. Sure, he and his clan could go it alone and they trusted him enough to follow him into the seven hells. But it was better to be united, better to be strong in the face of adversity.

 

“I won’t be sending my boys and girls back into battle again. We’ve suffered enough for now.” Answered another one of the opposing chiefs. Wallace was his name, he was young and strong. Sandor agreed with him to a point, would have probably said the same had he been on the other side of this discussion -- not so personally invested.

 

Persuasion was an art that Sandor had not yet mastered, and he hated having to unite the clans over a cause that didn’t touch them all in some way. It frustrated him beyond measure, tried him at every turn. Yet, there was one thing they all held for true, something that Sandor had long lost faith in. Perhaps this would be the way.

 

“What is the sigil of House Stark Wallace?” Sandor asked. The crowd fell silent. 

 

The younger man thought a moment, not having had quite the upbringing Sandor had enjoyed. After some time he answered, “A wolf.”

 

“That’s right.” Sandor confirmed. “And you remember those stories your mother told you while you were suckin on her teet do ya?” There was a challenge in Sandor’s voice, one that threatened to spill over into physical violence if the young man stepped out of line.

 

When the young man didn’t answer Sandor continued, his eyes drilling a hole through Wallace. “The wolf is a sign of prosperity here. She’s the wolf of the prophecy, she will bring us peace. But only if she is here, on our lands.”

 

“I didn’t take you for a superstitious man Sandor. Do you make a habit of of listening to the gossip of old women.” The younger man spat back, laughing aloud at his own joke.

 

There was a short silence, until another man piped up -- one of Sandor’s elite guard. “I saw it.” he said, then repeated it to get above the murmur of the crowd. “I saw a wolf following the Lady Stark in the woods. A she wolf in the West -- a strong animal, and fair.”

 

“I saw it too.” Said another man, not from Sandor’s own clan. 

 

Then slowly, several other Westermen began to chime in..

 

Wallace considered something a moment, seeing as he was slowly becoming less and less popular with the crowd. “So then tell me Sandor, what happens when Lord Stark doesn’t show up? I get the feeling he wants us to run headlong into a battle we’re going to lose just so he can have his lands back.”

 

He wasn’t wrong of course, that thought had not yet crossed Sandor’s mind -- but it was a reasonable fear. Sandor had to think quickly and decisively, otherwise he might not win the support of the others. “If Stark doesn’t show up in a fortnight…” he paused a moment so as not to stumble over his own words, “...then I will go alone.”

 

That seemed to satisfy the other clans, at least for now. Sensing now was the time to call for a vote Sandor did so, “Who’s with me?”

 

All the leaders raised their hands, though some more reluctantly than others. Though he very much wanted to, Sandor refrained from letting the relief that had just filled him show to the others. Now was not the time to be perceived as a lovesick man on a suicide mission -- even if that was indeed the case. They would ride to the edge of the Riverlands and wait and hope that Lord Eddard Stark was an honorable man.

* * *

##  Sansa

 

Her head was as far back on the pillow as she could lean it, her face certainly contorted in both confusion and discomfort as the Queen’s Maester poked and prodded her womanly parts. There was an utter humiliation that came with having your legs spread wide open with an unknown old man looking at you, only a screen covering her lower half from the view of the others in the room. The tinge of red her skin had taken pointed toward anger and embarrassment, something she was sure the others in the room had picked up on. 

 

The King’s sworn sword and member of the King’s guard, Gregor Clegane, stood at the door eyeing her as if the screen would slip and he’d catch a glimpse of her nether regions through the magical manipulation of the human mind. King Joffrey sat across from his mother, drinking wine and discussing such mundane topics it would have bored Sansa to tears if somebody hadn’t been constantly touching her in awkward places. She disliked both Joffrey and the Queen immediately, they were disingenuous at best -- conniving at worst. Whatmore they had power over her and no qualms about using it.

 

_ ‘When you are weak you use everything at your disposal. _ ’ Sansa thought to herself as they laughed and carried on in the background.

 

The King was a brat, not fit to rule and certainly not fit to fight -- though he thought himself a great warrior the way he carried his unsullied sword on his hip. He was nothing like Sandor, nothing like him at all. Perhaps once Sansa might have thought face like the King’s, young, fair and with blonde golden locks beautiful -- she felt ashamed knowing that it wouldn’t have been all that long ago. But as she studied his face from her position on the bed, all she could think was that he was spoiled and had experienced nothing that built character in a man.

 

_ ‘Hardship builds character and Sandor has had plenty of that.’   _ On top of that he was a man, with a man’s body -- big all over. She smiled briefly at the thought of being with him again, her naked body pressed against his.

 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity the Maester asked her to close her legs and walked around from the screen. 

 

“Lady Stark is as pure as the winter snow, your Grace.” He said, turning the heads of both the Queen and the King.

 

“Well that settles it then.” The Queen said as Sansa rounded the corner. Her skirts adjusted, her hair in place.

 

Sansa had just rounded the corner of the screen when the King spoke. “Well well, it seems as though that barbarian didn’t give into a man’s more baser instincts.” The way he walked over to her, they way his eyes roamed over her body made Sansa want to lose her lunch. It was disgusting though she thought he felt he was being sexually appealing.

 

“He seemed to not be interested in me, your Grace.” Sansa hated lying, but if she indicated in any way that she and Sandor had a connection -- the Lannisters might push to wed sooner. So she did her best to remain neutral.

 

Joffrey circled her, the hate rolling off of his body. “It’s disgusting, these men who lie with other men.” He began. 

 

Sansa did her best to inhale slowly, an attempt to not let her anger boil to the surface. 

 

“If he ever steps foot on my lands I’ll put that abomination to the sword. I’ve heard some very unsavory things about Sandor Clegane from his brother.” At this Joffrey stroked her cheek with his finger. “It’s good I could save you from him.”

 

She nearly burst out into laughter at this, to think he could even draw a sword on Sandor and hope to live was preposterous. It seemed Gregor had the same opinion as she heard him choke back a cough at the little King’s words. 

 

Trying to end this whole encounter as soon as possible Sansa spoke, “If it please your Grace, I would ask to take a small dinner in my room. The day’s ride was long and I fear I would only bore you at dinner tonight.” 

 

Seeming to take her ladylike request into deep consideration, the King looked over at his mother, who then promptly nodded. 

 

“Ser Gregor,” Joffrey began, “Take my Lady to her rooms and make sure to take very very good care of her. It would be a shame if anything should befall her.” 

 

There was something nefarious in the King’s voice, something that held a darkness making Sansa’s blood run cold. But she held a smile, kissed his Grace’s outstretched hand, bowed to the Queen mother and slowly made her way out of the room. She was walking only slightly behind the elder Clegane, allowing him to lead the way through the Red Keep. There were twists and turns, long halls and shorter ones. They walked in silence, this suited Sansa just fine. She wanted to go to her room and stay there as long as possible. 

 

It was when they turned into a darker hallway that Gregor grabbed her by the biceps and pushed her against the wall, the back of her head hitting the stone wall. His face was mere inches from hers, “You might fool them girly, but you don’t fool me.”

 

Turning her head to the said in a bid to escape Gregor’s aggression Sansa spoke, a slight fear encroaching on her voice. “Whatever do you mean?” If he thought she would give up her feelings to him, he was wrong.

 

“Don’t lie to me girl, I can sniff out lies.” His breath smelled awful, his hands crushing her arms and body against the wall. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you like my little brother. What did he do? Put his hands up your little girly skirt, his lips perhaps?” With this he leaned in even closer, giving her no place to hide.

 

Sansa tried to fight the trembling of her body, but she couldn’t. He could crush her if he wanted to -- kill her without a second thought. “No of course he didn’t.” She replied, her tone as scandalized as she could make it.

 

Snorting, Gregor took her right hand and held the palm of it in front of her face. “They don’t know what this means girly...but I do.” He was referring to the blood oath, the place where Sandor had pierced her hand some days before. 

 

She said nothing, not knowing what to say and not wanting to encourage him further. 

 

“Well let me tell you a little something about the love of your life.” She didn’t like the sound of his voice, the way his lips moved when he spoke about Sandor. It was as if he was getting some sick pleasure out of thinking of his brother -- out of holding something over her head.

 

Gregor chuckled quietly, taking in her scent from her neck. “I guess he never told you how he got so pretty, did he?”

 

At this Sansa turned her face to look at him, unable to hide both her anger at him and her feelings for the man he was talking about. Deep down she knew what he was going to say and it pained her beyond words. 

 

A smirk on his face, Gregor continued, “I did it. When we were kids. Pushed his face in the fire just to see what would happen, because he made me angry.” He laughed then, as if reliving the feeling of doing it all those years ago. “That little girl pissed his pants for years after that at the sight of me.”

 

Sansa’s eyes were locked with Gregors, her ice blues burning a hole through him. It was anger that was taking over, not fear as tears ran down her face. To imagine a little boy having to live through that, to have to face his attacker everyday was unbelievable. It was beyond anything she could imagine, any pain or fear she had ever had. 

 

_ ‘Yet he’s still so gentle and brave. He smiles, he laughs...he loves.’   _ She thought to herself. 

 

Thinking she was afraid of him too, Gregor continued with his menacing words, “He’s never won a fight against me, ever in his pathetic life. So don’t hold out any hope that he’s going to come for you. Because when he does, I’ll be sure to keep him alive just long enough for him to watch me fuck you bloody.”

 

At this her lips formed into a thin line, the shaking of her body stopped -- rage flooded her referentially small body. He had angered the wolf, threatened the man she loved and she would not have it. “That’s a bold statement for a man who turned his back on his people to be the dog of a rich family.”

 

Gregor’s pupils dilated at her words, but she continued anyway -- intent on stoking his rage. “Your brother is a thousand times the man you are, or will ever be. Sandor will come for me, and when he does he you will wish you had never been born. He would cross the whole of Westeros to find me, fight armies to reach me, and overthrow a king to take me home. He is strong, brave, gentle a better man than you’ll ever be.”

 

Her heart was beating so fast in her chest she could barely breath, yet she didn’t get the chance to see if he would hit her. A handmaid was fast approaching, so all she could see was Gregor’s contorted sneer as he pushed her down the hallway and to her bedroom door. She was relieved.

 

“Sweet dreams.” He said as she shut and barred the door behind her. 

 

It was dark outside, a gentle breeze cooled the room as Sansa threw herself on her bed and cried. She was alone in this place and if there was one thing she knew from the North -- one thing that fit this moment more than she could have ever imagined, was that the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Lifting her head to look out the window, Sansa watched the moon -- bright and full. She hoped that her pack would come for her  soon and wondered if Sandor was looking at the moon and thinking of her as much as she was thinking of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this one. Our kids will see each other soon, and when they do it will be explosive!


	11. Hot Heads and Hotter Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family fight sees Sandor allying with an unexpected person.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our final chapter before our kids get reunited. Enjoy!

#  Chapter 10: Hot Heads and Hotter Hearts

##  Sandor

 

The moon was full, the air a bit crisper than usual on this early fall night. Sandor looked up at the moon wondering if Sansa was doing the same thing he was. It was silly -- childish even -- to be a grown man thinking of nothing else than the love of one woman. But he was, she had consumed him in the short time they had been together and he could think only of her, and pray that when he finally did come that she still wanted him. It was the first time Sandor had ever experienced fear of this kind. The uncertainty of whether the wealth, opulence and presumed fairness of the young King would turn her head. Sandor didn’t have much to offer. His life was simple, his burned down Keep ruins, his face more an oddity than one that inspired lust. 

 

_ ‘Not more than a step above a peasant.’  _ He reminded himself as he took bite of meat and stared into the dark void of the forest. He had separated himself from his men, all the better to both clear his head and tend to his ailing heart in peace.

 

It had been nearly a fortnight since Sandor had left the Keep, since she had gone with the Lannisters -- since Sandor had put his status and leadership of the West on the line. He looked up at the moon and ran his fingers through his hair nervously. On the morrow he would lose his bet with the chiefs and concede. His honor would demand it. He shuddered thinking of what that would mean, not just for himself but also for the chances of getting Sansa back. Snorting he leaned back on the tree he was sitting under and began to run the possibilities through his head. There weren't many that didn’t end in his death and dismemberment. 

 

_ ‘This is hopeless.’  _ He sighed to himself,  _ ‘I will fulfill my oath, which will only end in my death and her marriage. Perhaps it’s better this way, perhaps it’s my destiny.’ _

 

Just as he was hitting the lowest pit of feelings that he had been piling up over the last several days, he heard a panting coming from the woods. Turning his head, Sandor was greeted by the She-Wolf, who walked over to him and slumped down beside him. She was full with pups, her belly swollen, clearly exhausted from the long trip there.

 

Sandor couldn’t help but smile. “You came all the way out here like that did ya?” He tentatively reached out and then slowly brought his fingers between her ears and stroked her fur. The creature didn’t seem agitated by his friendliness -- and by the gods he needed a friend.

 

Snapping a piece of his dry meat off, he offered it to her. Sniffing it once to make sure it was edible, the wolf gladly ate it then laid her head back down near his thigh. 

 

“Yeah I’m tired too.” He said, “But I can’t rest until she’s back -- safe and where she belongs.”

 

Yawning the wolf merely looked at him, as if she were completely not interested in his petty human games. It was unnerving to see a wolf on its own, Sandor knew this from the North -- where he had seen many in their natural habitat. They were a pack animal, hunting, living, sleeping and surviving together -- not alone. Clearly this one had a mate, but perhaps they had been separated or he had been killed. An overwhelming sadness came over Sandor as he thought about his She-Wolf in King’s Landing. She was alone amongst enemies, perhaps she was even scared. 

 

_ ‘I can’t leave her alone in this world.’  _ He swore to himself. Somehow the thought that wolves stuck together gave Sandor great hope that Lord Stark would hear her pleas and come. He just hoped it would not be too late.

 

Suddenly his furry companion sat up, her ears perked in high alert. She had sensed something even he could not -- sounds or smells that only a wild animal could detect. Sandor fingered the hilt of his sword as he looked around for what might come out of the woods toward them. She howled then, a long deep and frankly rather blood curdling howl that shook Sandor’s large chest as she did so. The She-Wolf did it a couple of times until finally he understood what she was doing. 

 

_ ‘She’s calling to them.’  _ He realized as other howls came to match her own. They were far away, yet rapidly closing the gap. 

 

The wolf took off quickly for the forest, Sandor unsheathing his sword in preparation for whatever might be approaching. It was the sound of hooves that caught is attention first and out of the woods, right in front of him came Lord Stark on horseback. Alongside him were his brother-in-law Lord Edmure Tully and the Blackfish along with a young girl, who shared the same eyebrows and hair color as the elder Stark. Sandor presumed it was his second daughter, as she was younger than Sansa and quite a bit more boyish. Smiling Sandor then saw Alastor and the Maester come into view.

 

_ ‘Well fuck me sideways.’ _ He laughed to himself. The pair and made it to Winterfell without killing one another. 

 

There were no words to describe the feelings that coursed through Sandor’s body, how to understand exactly what this moment meant to him. Hope perhaps? A sign that he wasn’t crazy maybe?

 

They seemed surprised to see him, the men on their horses and the knights and foot soldiers that followed them. Holding up a hand, Lord Stark put a stop to the procession and cocked his head to the side in curiosity.

 

“What in the name of the Seven are you doing out here Clegane?” The older man crossed his hands across his sadel and waited for a response. 

 

_ ‘I can’t very well say the wolf brought me here can I? Then he’d really think I lost touch with reality.’   _ Sandor thought to himself as panic rose in his chest.

 

“I heard something and came out to investigate. The camp is this way, we’ve left space for your men as well.” He said brushing off a bit of relief as he lead the way back to where his men were. 

 

The Westerners nodded the men through, tension still high as their old enemies looked for a space to set up camp. There was no love lost between the armies of the West and those of the Riverlands and the North. There was certainly no love lost between Sandor and any of the men who now came to his aid. Lord Edmure Tully was a horrible tactician and had lost his lands to Sandor, he had no reason to help him other than the love he had for his niece. The Blackfish had Sandor’s respect, the old man knew his way around a battlefield and had given Sandor more trouble over the years than he would have liked to admit. Though Sandor had bested him and wondered if the old man harbored any ill will toward him. But there was no time to settle old scores now, they needed to focus on Sansa and bringing her back to the family, to him.

 

Sandor lead the Lords, along with Alastor and the Maester through the camp and back to his small tent in the middle. In what Sandor could only describe as reverse dejavu, the three lords got off their horses in the middle of the Western camp to the scowls and evil eyes of the men around them. Sandor knew this feeling well, knew how difficult it was to bring sworn enemies together and turn them into friends. Wallace had crossed his arms across his chest and was shaking his head, as if unhappy to have lost his bet and was trying to figure out how it could have been possible that the Lords responded as quickly as they did. Shaking this from his mind, Sandor opened the flap of his tent to reveal a small table, a cot and two chairs. He didn’t feel like sitting though, he was ready for action, he was ready to strom through Westeros and reclaim his wife. 

 

Taking a piece of parchment out of his cloak, Lord Stark slammed it down on the table for Sandor to see. It was the letter they had written together, the reason they were here this night. “This has the mark of my daughter on it, but she cannot write in the Western tongue.”

 

The old man’s words were scathing, as if accusing him of a crime he had not committed. The tent seemed infinitely small now, particularly with seven people stuffed inside of it. Sandor did his best to remain calm. “She dictated it to me and I wrote it. Sansa was afraid it might be intercepted on its way to Winterfell.”

 

Sandor’s eyes were locked with Lord Stark’s, as if they were vying for control and would win it through staring each other down. 

 

“And you didn’t think for one moment to take her with you as you retreated? Or to keep the castle barricaded until we could sort this whole thing out?” There was a father’s anger and pain behind his words, though Sandor could not blame the man for his feelings -- Sandor loved Lord Stark’s daughter too.

 

“How was I to know you had made more promises than daughters?” Sandor spat back, to which the Tullys rolled their eyes. The brown haired girl simply smirked, as if she were having quite a bit of joy watching them argue. “We were unprepared for an assault and outnumbered. Sansa suggested we flee, giving them what they wanted and regrouping with a larger army.” 

 

It sounded so ridiculous, Sandor knew that. A young and rather inexperienced woman dictating what should be done between two armies. Yet it had been their best option in a losing situation -- and Sandor had known that then, and stood behind that now..

 

Lord Edmure piped up, “And you would listen to the words of a teenage girl? She’s been bred a lady not a military genius!” 

 

Sandor shot the man a murderous look, “You Riverlanders should try it sometime.” Smirking he continued, “Perhaps then you’d still have the Golden Tooth.”

 

At this the Lord of the Riverlands lunged forward, only to be held back by his uncle. The Blackfish held him tightly in place until Lord Stark spoke again. “There’s no need for inflammatory remarks.” He began, settling his brother-in-law and looking back toward Sandor. “My Maester said that when he and your captain came to give you the news of approaching army that he caught you and my daughter in a rather scandalous act.”

 

Sandor rolled his eyes and shot a glare out of the corner of them toward the Maester.  _ ‘That son of a bitch.’ _ He swore, ‘ _ I’ll have to give him a piece of my mind.’ _

 

Before he could reply to Lord Stark’s words, the older man continued. “However, he also said that she was smiling and laughing.” 

 

Sandor could see it was hard for this man to say those words, to see that his daughter was making her own life with a man he despised -- and liking it. The Lord of the North’s eyes grew sad, and softened slightly -- it was a moment Sandor never thought he would see coming from his old enemy. “She hasn’t smiled or laughed since her brother was killed. So I will believe that she did not write this letter under any sort of duress.”

 

Sandor shut his eyes a moment so that he could understand the magnitude of what his soon to be father-in-law had just told him.  _ ‘Gods she does love me.’  _ It made him feel both good and sorrowful at the same time. In one sentence Lord Stark had reminded him of what he had had with her, and what had been taken away from him. 

 

“We must march on King’s Landing immediately!” Sandor said, his captain nodding in approval. 

 

Lord Edmure spoke up again, “But not before we know the uh…” He looked over at the young brunette in the corner, then back to Sandor, “...status of her purity. If you have blemished her in any way it may not be worth to…”

 

His hands began to ball up into fists as he understood what Sansa’s uncle was saying. The veins in his neck began to strain against his skin as his eyes narrowed and he allowed his rage to take him. “How dare you couple her worth with something so ridiculous. You Northerners and your idiotic ideas about modesty. Sansa is purer than just about everyone in here, save that one.” He pointed to the brown haired girl in the corner, who hadn’t let him out of her sight the entire time. 

 

Aware of how intimidating he could be in these moments, standing at least a head taller than everybody else in the room, Sandor moved toward Sansa’s uncles with unbridled rage. “I don’t give one bloody fuck if she’s had a man between her legs or not. Sansa is smart, funny and more fucking brave than any of you cunts. She came to my lands without a bloody sword to protect herself, without any idea of me and who I am. The girl is strong, with the heart of the wolf in her and I’ll kill the next man who would dare degrade her on the basis of something so meaningless!”

 

Edmure had a look of terror on him that might have meant he pissed his pants. And Sandor hoped so.

 

“Enough!” Lord Stark bellowed, “We are not here to settled old scores. We are here to get my daughter back.”

 

Sandor felt himself noticeably relax at these words.  _ ‘At least somebody is thinking about her.’ _

 

Lord Stark continued, “We’ll need to draw the Lannister armies out. It makes the most sense that Edmure, Blackfish and you Clegane will take your armies to the Stoney Sept. There we can draw them there, then I will take mine and assault the castle.”

 

“No.” Sandor shook his head, “They’ll hear you coming from a mile away and lock the Red Keep up before you can even blink. Your Knights with their armor will make more noise than than a group of bloody banshees. My armies are not seen as a threat. We’re quite and would be in the fortress walls before they could raise the alarm. Your armies though will be much more worth to leave the city for, us they will never suspect. Then I can take my elite guard and storm the empty Keep.”

 

The mood noticeably stiffened as the other men looked at one another. After a rather long and awkward few moments Lord Stark spoke, “She’s my daughter, and she’s my responsibility to protect. We’ll do it this way.”

 

Sandor barked a laugh at the man’s response. There was no way he’d have Stark take her back, not knowing whether he would allow them to be together or not thereafter. He might be a barbarian in comparison to the Lords standing across from him, but he was not a fool. 

 

“She’s my wife, and I promised her I would come.” Sandor yelled glaring now at the men of Sansa’s family, the burnt side of his face twitching in agitation. 

 

A condescending tone in his voice Edmure Tully answered, “You are not kin to Sansa and if you think for one moment that we could even believe she could ever love you…”

 

There was no waiting for the rest of the sentence, no diplomatic way to handle the situation. Sandor chose to leave the tent so as not to beat the uncle of his wife-to-be to a pulp on the floor. There was no doubt that he was a hot head, but his heart, as he only just found out, burned even hotter. Ripping his sword from its sheath he found a sapling and began to whack at it as hard as he could. It never stood a chance of course, reduced to toothpicks in a matter of seconds. When that was done, Sandor began to beat his sword into the dirt and yell at the moon. He could not remember a time when he had been this angry, other than when it came to his own brother. 

 

_ ‘I might as well be on my own.’  _ He pained, looking up at the moon again, searching it for some untold strength or wisdom that might change the situation. 

 

He would instead find his salvation in a petite boyish brown haired girl. She’d been so quiet Sandor had not noticed her, it was her voice that turned his head.

 

“You’re not her type you know.” She said approaching him from the darkness. Her eyes sparkled with an odd sort of curiosity that Sandor couldn’t place. “You’re big, hairy and rather ugly.”

 

Snorting at her words, Sandor spoke, his anger receding. “And who the fuck are you?”

 

“I’m Arya Stark.” The girl said to him, her tone implying a rather high opinion of herself.

 

There was no helping the toothy grin that crossed Sandor’s face in the moonlight. “So you’re the sister nobody wanted. Pleased to meet you.”

 

The shock and slight bit of anger that crossed her face at his words almost made Sandor grin for a second time. She was young and proud, a small sword strapped to her hip as if she were Lord Stark’s son and not his daughter. The girl reminded him of Moire when she was her age and it warmed his heart.

 

“Father said you were caught kissing her between her legs.” She said, her nose wrinkling at the thought of the whole thing. “Why did it make her happy?” 

 

Looking up at the sky for a moment as if the Seven would help him, Sandor turned his head back to Arya. “You’re too young to know about those kinds of things.” He retorted, shifting uncomfortably. 

 

Arya stuck her tongue out at Sandor and continued walking around him, as if she were interrogating him for some as of yet unknown purpose. “Do you love her because she’s pretty? Because she has boobs and likes to wear dresses?”

 

Running his fingers through his hair Sandor thought about how best to answer his little interrogator. “Well I wear a dress so they can’t be all that bad now lassie.” She smiled a bit at his words and that put him at ease, if anything perhaps he could have one ally in the family -- no matter how small.

 

“Your sister is everything I’m not and everything I need. She’s made a man out of me, slapped the livin’ daylights out of me too.” The girl looked shocked at his words and seemed to consider something a moment. 

 

Sandor continued, “I made a blood oath to her before I left the castle. Told her I would storm King’s Landing to bring her back to me. And I will.”

 

As if on cue the She-Wolf approached them, pushing past Arya and sitting next to Sandor. It was clear the two ladies knew one another, but Sandor couldn’t say how he knew that.

 

“Lady?” Arya said questioningly, then ran and hugged the giant animal.

 

“You know this wolf?” Sandor asked, checking his sword just in case the animal would attack.

 

She looked at him with apprehension and continued to pet the wolf. “I know her, she’s Sansa’s pet -- in a manner of speaking anyway.”

 

The puzzled look on Sandor’s face was all Arya needed to continue. “We kind of nursed a litter of pups years ago, one pup for each Stark child. Then when they were old enough we released them into the wild, let them be free. But they would always come back, stay for some time, then leave again. Like a wild pet of sorts.”

 

Now she was considering something and Sandor would have given anything to know what it was. He didn’t have to wait long. “If she’s here with you, then so is my sister’s heart -- in a manner of speaking.” She paused a moment. “I will talk to my father and persuade him that your way is best. He may only ask that some of his men come along, that you share in the task of finding her.” 

 

“Fair.” Sandor said eyeing the boyish girl in front of him. He liked her, she had the heart of a fighter. ‘ _ She should have been a Westerner.’ _ He mused.

 

“Just promise me you’ll bring her back safely.” She said in as threatening a voice as she could.

 

Sandor nodded. “I’ll bring her back or I’ll die tryin’.”

 

They shook on it, which Sandor found odd but then again everything had been odd about this evening. The wolf, the girl, the whole fucking situation.  He watched her walk back to the tents, her little sword strapped to her hip and thanked all the gods he could that he was one step closer to bringing Sansa home.

  
  



	12. Until Death Do Us Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Sandor are reunited, as the fight for King's Landing rages.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while to get this one out, but I think it's were I want it. After this chapter...lemons whoot whoot!!!

# Chapter 11: Until Death Do Us Part

## Sansa

 

When the alarm bells rang from the tower of the Red Keep, Sansa looked up from her early morning needlework like every other highborn lady in the sewing room. But unlike these women, she did not share their fear, finding it hard to suppress the fire that burned deep in her heart for the very cause of the alarm.

 

 _‘He’s coming.’_ She smiled to herself as she went back to her work, pretending she did not understand the meaning of the ringing.

 

Panic slowly came over the group as a soldier stuck his head in to warn them of the impending fight. “The Westermen have come!” Were the only cryptic words flung in their direction as the murmur of battle began to drift through the open windows of the room from the streets outside.

 

Sansa took this moment as a means to slip out of the room undetected, not wishing to draw the ire of the women there. Some of them knew she had been _‘whisked away by the barbarians’_ that her previous fiancé was the Lord of the West. There was no mistaking the soldier's words and if the Westermen had come, it would have most likely been for her. A wave of relief swept over her at the very fact that this would soon be over, she has spent two months at the Red Keep, and could only describe it as one of the seven hells. The King was an immature child with a dark side, who wanted nothing more than to have his way at the expense of others. It sickened Sansa the way he swung that newly forged sword of his around as if he were some kind of fighter or war hero.

 

 _‘Joffrey is nothing like Sandor, nor will he ever compare to him.’_ She had told herself so many times it wasn’t even amusing. _‘But now Sandor is here and all I have to do is find him again.’_

 

Chaos swept through the Keep as people ran for cover, bolting themselves into rooms with heavy doors. Sansa made her way against the crowd of people darting around the passages of the Keep, still trying to find a safe place to hide. The Westermen were feared warriors, known for little mercy and Sansa had no doubt that her man would not rest until they were together again. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t scary to see the panic evolving around you. Her younger years had been dictated by war, yet Sansa had only just seen her first corpses. Even then they were far away, whilst riding west. Now they were spread across the hallways, thrown about like rag dolls in the chaos. She would do her best to keep calm, knowing that it would not be much longer before she would see Sandor again. Silently she tiptoed down a hallway that lead towards her rooms and wondered where she should go next.

 

 _‘If the King is looking for me, best not to go to my rooms. But where can I be sure Sandor will find me?’_ She must have looked half deranged pushing against the flow of servants and lower Lords and Ladies running away from the fighting. Sansa was indeed drawn to it. She did not fear Sandor’s men, knew them to be kind and accommodating.

 

 _‘They will remember me.’_ She assured herself as she pressed on, deciding to make her way toward the front of the castle where she could get a better view of what was actually happening. But before she could make any real progress in that direction she was grabbed roughly on the shoulder, wheeled around and slapped right in the face. Sansa fell to the floor dazed. She wasn’t quite sure if she blacked out briefly or not, what she was sure of despite her blurry vision was that Gregor Clegane was now towering over her. Her head was ringing as she stared up at him a moment, fear welling up inside of her.

 

“You thought you could fly the coop didn’t you little bird?” He bent down and took her chin in his hand. “Well you were wrong.” It was the way he said it that made her blood curdle. There was no boy King to stop him from doing what he wanted, no knight here to oppose him. In the fog of war he could do as he pleased and kill her without anyone knowing, or anybody questioning the circumstances under which she had met her demise.

 

Sansa’s breath caught as she tried to make words, but found that nothing came out of her mouth. Her captor sneered, “When my brother comes for you, I want him to watch me fuck you hard, squeeze the life out of our little body and keep fucking you until you grow cold.” At that thought he laughed. Then he stood up, grabbed her by the hair and began to pull her down a narrow hallway.

 

“No!” Sansa managed to scream out as she gripped his hands with her own, so he wouldn’t rip her red locks from her head and began to wiggle furiously -- to no avail.

 

Gregor’s demented laugh rang out over the sounds of heavy fighting, a trail of death and blood in their wake as he dragged her along. Through her tears and her screams she hoped that Sandor would hear her, that he would come for her -- that she would at least see him one more time before she died.

* * *

 

 

## Sandor

 

Sandor had always considered himself a Westerman through and through, but rarely had he gone to war in the complete colors and face paint of his clan. His face was scary enough to strike fear in the hearts of men, his size and ferociousness enough to make them drop their swords and surrender. But as he and his men prepared to storm the castle, to enter King’s Landing undetected with the goal of killing as many soldiers as possible and finding his wife -- Sandor had decided to go to war properly. If she really was the fulfillment of the prophecy there seemed no harm in not fucking it up with unnecessary Westerosi influence. As such, Sandor had wrapped his battle kilt of yellow and black tartan around his body with care, throwing the rest of the material over his shoulder and wrapping his sword belt around waist to keep it all in place. There would be no tunic, or leather studded armor as his men usually wore. He would be shirtless, the scars that littered his gigantic body would speak for themselves to both his braveness and his formidability. They would be a reminder to his ancestors that he was a warrior, honorable and worth protecting. He would smear paint of black, red and blue across his face and body -- not only to inspire fear in his enemies, but also to be more camouflaged in the early morning twilight.

 

Lord Stark had agreed to send the majority of his men out to the Stoney Sept, and it had indeed had the effect of drawing the King’s troops away from the city. As Sandor’s men were lighter and faster than those of the North, they rode ahead to the city at breakneck speed. There would be no way for the armies to turn back to protect the city fast enough, no way for anybody to warn its citizens. Of course Lord Stark would come behind with some of his own men, so had been the agreement forged by his youngest daughter between the two men. She was a little fiery thing and Sandor had promised her he would teach her how to use that small length of steel she kept at her waist to full effectiveness once he returned from King’s Landing. The smile on her face had made him want a daughter with Sansa more than anything in the world. He’d be a sucker for a little girl, no questions there. He smiled at the thought of this as he and Alastor embraced one last time before climbing over the walls of the Red Keep.

 

Just as they had anticipated, the sentinels were unprepared for the Westermen. Sandor’s men were light, quick on their feet, quiet and deadly. Throats were slit, bodies hidden and the castle penetrated without so much as waking a babe. The only downside was that the castle was huge, in all of his life Sandor had never seen a castle so big, didn’t know how he would find Sansa in the heart of the beast. Sandor and his men spread throughout the castle grounds, all of them knew who they were looking for, all of them had clear orders -- to kill. Westermen didn’t often negotiate. This was the reason his meeting with Lord Stark had been so odd, and yet so rewarding all at once.

 

Sandor looked up at the sky, the sun was rising and with that the inevitability of their discovery approached. When the guard would change, the alarm would be rung, what little forces had been left to protect the castle would be called and he and his men would have to use their swords and fight. They cleared the barns first making sure that it would be difficult for anybody to flee, then made their way into the castle. There was fear in these men. Southerners were known for being soft, strong in a group but not on their own. Sandor made sure to take full advantage of this -- his sword would carry the stains of many a man’s blood this day.

 

When the alarm bell finally did ring, it was late in the morning and they were close -- very close. Sandor had sent his men ahead while he and Alastor began to clear the rooms of the inner castle. The halls were full of screaming people as they pushed through the crowds, less interested in civilians -- looking for the one red head that would stand out among them. As Sandor and Alastor approached a rather opulent door, Sandor got butterflies in his stomach. If this was the King’s room, perhaps she would be there -- or at the very least he would know where she was. Looking at his friend they both nodded and pushed the door open. What met their eyes was shocking, even to two battle hardened men.

 

It was indeed the King’s room. If it hadn’t been clear from the coat of arms hanging over the bed, the blond boy in the corner with a crown on his head would have been the next clue. He popped up and took aim with a crossbow and fired a shot right at them. Well, in their direction at least. It was way off, Sandor and Alastor didn’t even need to flinch to get out of the way. But as they looked around the room, the horrors that had unfolded there were not for the faint hearted. A whore, or at least what Sandor assumed to be one, was dead in center of the room with more than ten arrows sticking out of her long lifeless body. She was naked, spread eagle and full of dried blood. When Sandor turned his attention back to the King, he could see he was having issues reloading his weapon, he was shaking so much. Running across the room and grabbing the boy by the neck, Sandor smacked him against the wall by the throat as hard as he could, lifting the King’s thin body from the ground.

 

“Where is she?” The Lord of the West demanded, watching the boy quiver in his hands. Upon seeing this quivering, weak, poor excuse for a human being Sandor immediately felt any feelings of inadequacy melt away. The boy was disturbed and cruel, nothing that would turn her head. Sandor had not known Sansa very long, but he knew she was smart -- too smart to fall for a tosser like this.

 

“I ddd...dddon’t know.” The boy stuttered.

 

Frustrated Sandor threw the Boy King down on the floor and looked over at Alastor for a bit of guidance. _‘What the fuck am I supposed to do with him?’_ Sandor wondered.

 

Sandor was used to taking life for no reason, or at least not a reason that mattered for very long. But to kill a King would be to start a coup, and a coup had not been his intention. Sandor didn’t have much time to consider this thought as his eye caught Alastor’s. There was something in his old friend’s look that made him turn back toward the floor. The boy was coming at him with a knife, a poor choice. Always quicker than he looked, Sandor dodged the feeble lunge of the boy, grabbing the knife from his hand and driving it through the young King’s chest. It would be a quick death, but a death all the same. Sandor was not generally driven by a love of killing, but already from the little that he had seen in this room, he was sure he had done the world a favor by taking this one out of it. Alastor only nodded as Sandor watched the light leave the King’s eyes. It was done, the King was dead.

 

Pushing on, Sandor and Alastor continued through the castle. It was a cacophony of fear and panic drifting through the corridors. People were running through the halls screaming, begging, locking themselves inside their rooms. Sandor had no interest in them, he only wanted _her_. They turned a corner that was eerily silent and Sandor’s chest clenched. The hall was lined with dead men, some soldiers but mostly civilians. They were gutted, blood and fluids making the hall stink in the heat of the day. The bodies were posed too, their fingers pointing the way, but to what Sandor could only imagine.

 

 _‘Gregor’s work.’_ Sandor knew it right away. His brother had always been this way, dramatic and reckless with the lives of others.

 

“Go on.” Sandor told Alastor. “Search the castle and let’s hope that Stark arrives quickly, we can’t defend this place for very long.”

 

“Be careful.” Alastor patted him on the shoulder and nodded. The old man knew this had to be between the two brothers, but that didn’t mean he liked it. Sandor watched his old friend run down the hall toward the action, a Westerman battle cry on his lips.

 

Inhaling deeply with his sword at the ready, Sandor made his way down the corridor lined with bodies, each more twisted and torn apart than the other. The goal was clear, an ornate door at the end of the hallway. Pausing outside the door, Sandor took a moment to steady himself. He didn’t know what he’d find, and if Sansa would be there – or even alive. Gregor was cunning and knew better than anybody else how to use Sandor’s emotions against him. This fight would be anything but fair. But Sandor didn’t want fair, he wanted what was his, he wanted to leave this place, he wanted to live for the first time in his entire life.

 

 _‘You can do this.’_ In this moment he would have thought, that he could have thought up something a bit more witty or encouraging to boost his confidence before one of the most difficult fights of his life. But no, that was all he could come up with. He pursed his lips together.

 

Kicking the door open Sandor rushed through, his eyes scanning the large opulent room for anything out of place. The Iron Throne sat on the dais, a hideous thing made of the swords of the Targaryan enemies. As the doors shut behind him, it was as if there was no fighting going on outside these walls at all. As if all the outside sound had been sucked away, leaving only this place, this moment and this battle. A scream filled the room and turned Sandor’s head to the corner.

 

She was fighting, that was the first thing that registered in Sandor’s mind as he saw her on the ground with Gregor over her. Sansa was screaming and had scratched some lines in his older brother’s face. He’d given her a bloody lip for her troubles, but luckily nothing more. If there was one thing Sandor knew, it was that his brother liked to keep them pretty before he killed them -- but that didn’t mean she wasn’t making him more angry. She was a handful and Gregor seemed to be having a difficult time removing his codpiece and holding her down at the same time. He didn’t have his helmet on either, which made him all the more vulnerable. Relief filled Sandor at the mere idea that she had not been hurt any further than what he had seen.

 

 _‘You aren’t going to hurt anybody anymore if I have anything to say about it.’_ Sandor vowed, his heart racing.

 

“Gregor! She’s not for you!” Sandor yelled in his own language, making both Gregor and Sansa turn their heads toward him.

 

Taking the moment of Gregor’s surprise to wiggle away, Sansa ran out of arm's reach, pulling up her torn silken dress in order to cover herself more properly -- a faint smile at the sight of him on her face.

 

 _‘Focus.’_ he reminded himself. There was no point in making it all this way to lose a fight to something as silly as distractions.

 

“You’ve gotten old brother.” Gregor retorted in the common tongue. He looked Sandor over in disgust, “And you’ve fucking lost your mind. Going native against me? You want your pretty little whore to watch me slice you in two?”

 

Sandor watched his brother rise from his kneeling position on the floor, his suit of armor cumbersome compared to Sandor’s own kilt. In their war against the Northerners Sandor had learned that his strength and agility made him formidable against these tin men. These knights clad in suits of armor that protected them, but impeded their movement. Sandor thanked his ancestors for allowing them to fight as men, and not wasting their time these tin cans. Whirling his sword around in his hands, Sandor tried to look as comfortable as possible though his nerves bubbling up. He’d never quite gotten over the fear of his brother, knowing he was crazy and capable of doing just about what he wanted to anybody. Today he would not only have to overcome his fears, but best him in combat.

 

“And you’ve gotten fat brother.” Sandor called back, again in his Gaelic language. “If you think I can’t touch you in that tin suit of yours, well you’re wrong.”

 

It was true, Gregor did look wider than he once was. But that still didn’t take away from the fact that he was a full head higher than Sandor and a hell of a lot meaner. Both men lunged toward one another, Sandor with his sword positioned defensively knowing Gregor would take the first swing. His brother’s downward swing came at him so as to literally cut him in half, but Sandor blocked it - the power and strength of Gregor’s blow sending shockwaves through his body. The loud clang the swords made as they met ringing in his ears so loudly it was almost deafening.

 

Regripping his sword, Sandor and Gregor began to encircle one another, sizing each other up. It had been nearly ten years since they had crossed paths last -- and so much had happened since then.

 

 _‘You don’t know me like you think you do.’_ Sandor thought to himself as he moved forward, faking a swing and then going above Gregor’s defense -- his broadsword smacking the suit of armor with a loud pop. It was a warning shot, a taste of things to come.

 

 _‘I’m not afraid of you anymore.’_ Sandor’s eyes were fixed on his brother’s wide ones. But anger quickly over took them, they narrowed as they looked at Sandor.

 

Always quicker than he appeared to be, Gregor ran at his brother, he sword poised to knock Sandor’s head clean off. Ducking the blow and rotating as he did so, Sandor brought his sword to meet Gregor’s armor. Catching himself quickly, Gregor turned blocking the next two blows Sandor had before breaking their connection. He was out of breath, not in the shape he used to be.

 

“The South has made you soft.” Sandor chastised him, hoping Gregor would make a mistake. They were equally matched this time, this would not be a contest of skill but one of mistakes and who would make one first.

 

Gregor merely laughed and came toward Sandor again, swinging his sword with the brute strength of a bull, and with about as much care as one. Blocking his blows, but losing a lot of energy in the process Sandor backed up moving them more in the center of the throne room. Sweat was dripping down his temples, taking some of his face paint with it. The force with which they were striking one another was brutal, one false move and Sandor could lose an arm, or worse. Gregor also wouldn’t be able to manage this pace for long, his suit of armor tiring him unnecessarily. With this in mind Sandor advanced again, only to be sidestepped and tripped by his older brother.

 

“I think your little Lady and I are gonna get to know each other really well.” Gregor taunted, “I might just like her little fire cunt so much that I’ll keep her around for a bit.”

 

Rolling up from the floor back to a standing position Sandor could hear Sansa crying, feel her pain and fear from across the throne room. It made Sandor angry, furious. He lunged this time and Gregor was ready, allowing Sandor to get close to him then using his steel-clad shoulder to push Sandor to the ground. Gregor was on top of him then, punching Sandor with a mail covered fist, his second hand on Sandor’s throat.

 

With a roar and a jolt Sandor pushed his fingers up toward Gregor’s eyes, driving them far enough to have him stop punching Sandor and grab his face in pain. Rolling over Sandor was then on top of Gregor, straddling his bigger brother and punching him in the face. His knuckles were bruising, and blood was splattering back on him from Gregor’s lips and nose.

 

Every hair on Sandor’s body was standing on end, every muscle throbbed to the beat of battle. He had to win for her, there was no other option to entertain. Victory was close, Sandor could feel it – but he would need a blade, not his bare hands. He had only taken his eyes off Gregor for a moment, his broken eye contact not lasting more than a couple seconds when he felt steel being driven through his right shoulder.

 

Screaming in pain Sandor felt his advantage slipping, saw the floor coming toward him as Gregor flipped him over again – his knife deep in Sandor’s body. The pain was so intense that words failed to reach Sandor’s lips, all he knew was that he couldn’t let Gregor twist the blade. It was his sword arm after all, to damage it with the twist of a knife would seal both Sandor and Sansa’s fates. Biting through the agony Sandor thrust his left hand over Gregor’s, keeping the knife in place.

 

Laughing, Gregor came up to a kneeling position and leaned over Sandor putting his lips to his younger brother’s ear. “Maybe I’ll just fuck you first, give your girl a little preview of what’s to come.”

 

Sandor was shaking with rage, his body in shock his mind clouded with pain and frustration. _‘If I don’t do something we are both lost.’_

Gregor was trying to twist the knife, straining against Sandor’s strong grip. He wouldn’t be able to hold out for long through, not loosing blood like this. There was a fleeting moment of helplessness that gripped Sandor, a resignation that he might not be able to get himself out of this mess. His brother’s weight was overwhelming as he leaned on Sandor, the stench of his breath sickening. But then, out of the blue, he heard a huge thud and felt blood splatter across his face. Whatever Sansa had done, it made Gregor turn his attentions away from Sandor – this would be his only moment.

 

Gripping the knife with both hands so it would not be driven deeper or make the wound wider, Sandor fixed Gregor to him. Then, using all the strength he had left in his legs, he bunched them under his kneeling brother vaulting him over his own head. Knowing he would have to act quickly, Sandor grabbed the first sword he saw on the floor and rushed in the direction of his brother. Gregor had landed on his back, dazed from whatever Sansa had hit him with and was having difficulties to get up – flailing around in his heavy armor.

 

Without hesitation and without the realization that he was yelling a battle cry at the top of his lungs, Sandor leapt upon his brother using all his weight to drive the sword straight into this chest. There was the feeling of steel breaking, followed by soft flesh, at the end of which the sword hit the marble floor, it’s tip breaking off. With all the might he could, Sandor twisted the sword effectively nailing his brother into the throne room’s floor.

 

Falling back on his heels Sandor’s only thought was how warm his brother’s blood was as it slowly ran toward his knees – contrasting greatly with the coldness of the marble floor. His ears were thrumming with the sounds of war. His body pumped too full of adrenaline for him to feel anything other than a high. Sandor’s chest was heaving, and his mind was blank – it was not bliss he felt, nor sorrow but satisfaction. That was the only thing he was capable of feeling, the only thing that entered his foggy mind.

 

Death would be the only thing to ever part them, Sandor knew that now. They would be together from now on, the Stranger take anybody who would argue otherwise.


	13. A Bond Forged in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor and Sansa finally fulfill their promise to one another, and forge a bond stronger than love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally what we all, especially me, have been waiting for!!!! There will be an epilogue, as we should all know how the story ends and the prophecy is fulfilled. But until then....lemons for everybody!

#  **Chapter 12: A Bond Forged in Love**

**Sandor**

There was an emptiness that came with the fulfilment of revenge, and with this emptiness a deadening of feelings and emotions. The world was spinning around Sandor as he sat back on his heels, his left hand on the floor to steady himself, his mind drowning in the fog of war. There was a ringing in his ears that eclipsed any other sound, a numbness in his body that overshadowed any pain and a sadness that filled him nearly to completion. In the many times he had thought about killing his brother, dreamt about beating him in battle and ridding the world of the evil plague that had taken the form of a man, Sandor had always been jubilant. He had relished the feeling of triumph and utter happiness, spitting on his brother’s corpse and eating a proper feast after the fact. But no, this moment was anything but happy – it was the end of an era and the beginning of something different and unknown.

Sandor balled up a fist and turned as hands grasped at him, his eyes caught Sansa’s wide ones and he pulled her to him. Embracing her for the first time in a long time. Her mouth was moving but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. All he could do was clutch her heaving body to his own, use her as an anchor to draw him back into this world, reborn a man – no longer a scared boy keen on proving himself. Concern written all over her face she was pointing at something on his body, Sandor looked down to his right shoulder to see Gregor’s blade still inside. He looked at it a moment to make sure it was not serrated then pulled it from his body, dropping it on the floor unceremoniously and covering the wound with his own hand. Sandor was amazed by how little he felt, how his heightened emotions were more focused on sights and smells, rather than physical pain. Gregor wasn’t dead yet, he was gurgling, wheezing and taking his bloody time to die. Death was inevitable, and Sandor didn’t care if it happened now or later – just as long as he made sure he had finished what he had come there to do.

To take her home.

Sansa was wrapping a torn off piece of her dress around his shoulder to stop the bleeding, pulling it tight and helping him apply pressure to it. She was so sweet in her ways, so determined and focused that Sandor couldn’t have been more grateful that the gods had given her to him. She would be a good wife and an even better partner – Sandor looked forward to the future.

Gripping his face and tugging at his chest Sandor was pulled back into reality. A battle was raging outside the throne room and she was begging him to do something. He could see it in her face, the way her forehead wrinkled with concern, her eyes widened in fear, and in the way her hands moved about him. Shaking his head a moment to clear it, Sandor looked at her again watched her mouth moving and strained to hear her words.

“….please quickly, take me Sandor, do it now!” She was pleading with him, pulling him to her.

Confused, he cocked his head to the side to make sure he had understood correctly what she was saying.

“You must, you must – please hurry. I don’t want there to be any question as to my loyalties, as to us…please!!!” She was begging him now, shaking him as hard as her little boy could, her torn dress falling away from her breast unbid exposing it to his eyes.

Gods how he’d dreamed of this moment, the moment when she would smile at him, kiss him softly and invite him to make her his wife in truth. He had thought about it many times as they had been apart, yearned for it like an teenaged boy eager to impress his first true girlfriend. But in all his wildest dreams, he could have never expected the situation under which she was asking him to do it now. A war raged in the streets of King’s Landing, a King had been toppled and his brother lie dying no more than arm’s length from them. He was bloody, tired, high on the adrenaline that war gave a man – and yet he understood why she was so insistent. He would not have her taken away from him on a technicality. He would do as she bid.

Catching her wrist in his hand he looked at her, Sansa’s beautiful ice blue eyes were full of hope, fear and even desire. They were eyes that you could lose yourself in, they were his, his alone. Quickly he looked around for a better place than where they were, a table on the dais with a white table cloth seemed fitting – so he steadied himself as he got to his feet and pulled her there. Sandor lifted Sansa onto the table’s edge, pushing her knees apart so he could be between them. They were kissing passionately, hard and fast, her tiny fingers gripping at his long, tangled hair, her teeth biting at his lips as they pressed their faces into one another. They were sloppy kisses, ones he would make up for later.

Ripping the rest of her dress open at the top Sandor’s hands went immediately to her breasts, each a perky heavy handful, and ran his calloused thumbs over the hardening crests of her nipples. They were stiffening under his touch, her kissing and moans increasing with voracity as he did so. Satisfied with her responses, Sandor reached under her dress, ripping her small clothes from her body. He would have to talk to her later about what he found there, she was dripping wet for him – much more than he had anticipated.

_ ‘If I have to kill a man every time for this, it could get difficult.’  _ He joked to himself as he massaged her cunt with his sword hand.

She was hot and ready, begging him to act quickly – though he had always wanted to take is time with her. This was not the way he had envisioned their first time together, far from it actually – but he would have to work with what was given to them. A moment in a warzone stolen away from the rest. Sandor thanked his ancestors again for the practicalities of their style of dress, bringing his left hand to his well hardened manhood with ease under his kilt. Adjusting her hips at the edge of the table Sandor bid she lay back as he found her entrance with the tip of his engorged cock. His head was rounded and moist slipping in slowly, spreading her lips in order to make way for his healthy shaft. He could feel her lips pushing them apart, his manhood painstakingly making its way toward her core while she squirmed on the table in front of him. He was trying to be gentle, trying to not make it hurt as much as he knew it could.

It was a tight fit, one that pleased him greatly and made her forehead wrinkle in strain. “Relax, relax.” He whispered to her, bending over her to soothe her as best he could.

At this she began to kiss him again, urging him with her motions to rock his hips back and forth. It wasn’t for lack of wetness that he was progressing slowly but rather to give her body the time to adjust to his invasion. As a commander he had been taught to move fast, to take a castle with force and end the assault as quickly as possible. However this invasion was an altogether different one. It would require a different kind of tactic that he was not used to employing. He could feel that now, as his body begged him to bottom out, to push, to fill her relentlessly with his cock. Sandor would have to resist, if only for a short while.

Snaking his left hand under her head and his right to her hip, Sandor held his young bride in place kissing her sweet pink lips and playing with her tongue. He would have to take her mind off of what was happening between her legs and focus her more on him, or this was never going to work. She was moaning into his mouth as he moved the head of his cock past her entrance slipping  a bit deeper and resting near her maidenhead. Her hands were on his shoulders, gripping them close to her and traveling down his chest. Taking her invitation, Sandor brought her one of her legs to wrap around his waist, her other naturally following suit.

He pushed into her again, feeling the break of her most prized possession and feeling her arch into him. Sandor had heard this was a painful experience for women, but also that it passed quickly. He would not let her contemplate the pain when he could make her feel pleasure. Seizing this moment to seat himself into her completely, he could feel her vaginal walls clenching around him. She was so tight and sweet that he wasn’t so sure he hadn’t died in the battle against Gregor and his was the heaven he had found himself in. It was her beautiful smile that brought him back to her, this grin of satisfaction knowing that they were there.

_ ‘She thinks this is all.’ _ He mused, looking down at her with a smile on his face. He must have been a horrific sight, covered in sweat and blood – his war paint surly smudged across his hideous face. Yet she was smiling at him, her tiny palm on his burnt cheek touching him ever so gently. Reminding him that there was more than war in this life, but a softness too. He grinned cheekily at the look of surprise on her face as he began to move in and out of her, her wetness quickly giving way to the rather authoritative wet slaps of his balls against her body.

Her back began to arch and her eyes rolled slowly into the back of her head as he found a good rhythm. There was a perfect synchronicity to their motions, the clenching of her hands on his forearms as he bottomed out inside of her, the moaning and now quite loud sounds of pleasure escaping her mouth, the slap of his body against hers – it was beautiful, art brought to life.

“That’s it.” He encouraged her as she wriggled and squirmed under his body – not quite sure what to do but trying her hardest to fall in line. They would have many a great night together, Sandor could already tell by how she instinctively did the right things. Seeing she was no longer in pain he began to fuck her harder, using short shallow strokes to hit her womb with an increased intensity. Each time he did so it elicited a loud sound of pleasure from her lips.

There were very few things that could give a man more pleasure than having his enemy’s daughter squirm for joy at the end of his cock, but as the door to the throne room opened and Sandor’s eye flickered to the man approaching, he was about to discover one of those few things. Smirking into her hair, Sandor pretended not to notice Lord Stark enter the room, more focused on making Sansa find her own pleasure with his cock between her legs and finishing his promise to her by emptying his seed deep inside. That was the only thing these Northerners understood in marriage, that to claim a woman was to empty yourself in her – though there were several other ways. Sandor would have time to show her all of those once they were home, but now he needed to focus.

There was a raggedness to her breath that signaled to Sandor she was close. Keeping his face buried in her neck and allowing her sweet scent of sweat and lavender to flood his nostrils, Sandor kept up the tiring and hectic pace with which he was moving inside of her. Her internal muscles were clenching, her nails digging into his back and then a moment where he was pretty sure she wasn’t breathing before she released – the sound of her orgasm filling the throne room in a beautiful deep satisfied series of moans. Knowing he would need to finish soon, Sandor was grateful that her muscles were tightening milking him to a quick conclusion. As his seed spurted inside her, Sansa kissed him gripping him closer to her body with her legs still wrapped around his waist.

If Lord Stark had wanted to raise any questions as to the legitimacy of their marriage, they would have all been null and void after what he had just witnessed. It was immensely satisfying to know that he had claimed her before the eyes of her father. To fill her to the brim, to know that she would one day carry his line was a victory over his old enemy that physical violence could not bring. Whether she would see it that way or not was another story. Sandor grinned at the thought of what her reaction would be. She was peppering him with kisses in their post coital bliss, her little fingers running through his hair again. There was a contentedness on her face that he swore to himself he would work hard to keep there.

Nipping at her ear he whispered, “Your father is here.”

She hadn’t quite heard him as she kissed his jawline, an idol, “Humm?” Passing her lazy satisfied lips.

“Your father.” Sandor moved his eyes in the direction of the door and Sansa turned her head to follow them.

He could feel her body tense in shock as he uncoupled himself from between her legs, his erection still raging though he had emptied his load completely. She’d turned bright red by then, standing up from the table, yet a bit frozen as to what exactly to do or how to act. Sansa tried to find something to say while she pulled the scraps of her dress up to cover her chest. A smug grin on his face Sandor kneeled grabbing her by the corset, pulling her toward the floor so as to follow his lead. The lines of succession were clear in Westeros, and the new King stood before them. Sandor had to praise his ancestors yet again, as the pleats in his kilt somewhat disguised the fact that his most prized weapon was still ready for battle. Smirking to the floor he waited for Lord Stark to speak.

“Rise my children.” He said looking over at Sansa first, making sure she wasn’t injured. Given the fact that she was smeared with blood, war paint and other things -- it wasn’t obvious that she was unharmed.

Lord Stark embraced his daughter, now standing, taking her face in his hands so as to look at her properly. “Are you hurt?” He asked.

Blushing more than Sandor thought humanly possible she finally found the courage to look her father in the face, “No father, everything is fine. Sandor came for me. He saved me.” She said looking over at the now dead body of Gregor Clegane, a large silver candelabra with blood on its base laying near him. Sandor had quite literally impaled him, but not without her help. Lord Stark nodded, leaving an idol finger grace her cheek before focusing his attention on Sandor.

“And you Sandor. My newly minted son…” There was an uneasiness in Lord Stark’s voice that sounded more like embarrassment, “…your men have done well. We have secured the castle and the Lannister men have surrendered at the Stoney Sept. The war is won.”

Sandor merely nodded, not sure what to say or what would happen next.

“Kneel.” The elder Stark ordered, taking his long valyrian steel sword from its sheath. “I name you, Sandor Clegane, Warden of the West. You shall be it’s Lord and protector, keeping it – as well as my daughter – safe from foreign invasion and threat. Do you accept?”

“Aye.” Sandor said, looking at the ground – feeling the touch of the cold steel on each of his bare shoulders. Sandor stood after that, a full head and shoulders taller than his father-in-law.

“I still need to secure parts of the castle…” Lord Stark paused a moment, “And it also seems like you have some unfinished business to take care of as well.” Stark’s eyes motioned down to the obvious tent in Sandor’s kilt.  “Carry on and bring her home safely.”

Both Sandor and Sansa bowed slightly as Lord Stark turned and made his exit from the throne room – a huge relief sweeping over both of them.

* * *

 

**Sansa**

There was no way of knowing how long her father had been watching them on the dais, but just the fact that Sandor had still been inside of her when she saw him was enough to make Sansa want to die of embarrassment. There was nothing in her life that could have been more embarrassing than that – but it was somehow also so liberating. She was a woman grown now, and he father had treated her differently in the throne room of the capital. She was no longer a girl in his eyes, but a woman who had made a choice and did not regret it. Sansa couldn’t explain how she knew this, perhaps it was the look in his eyes when he hugged her or a change in his demeanor as he awarded Sandor his lordship. Either way, she was a woman with a strong and capable husband by her side.

Sansa looked tentatively in Sandor’s direction, they were still standing there on the dais not sure what to do. She thought back to his words, spoken to her in jest at his Keep in the Westerlands. She certainly did feel something between her legs, his manhood having stretched and opened her further than she could have known possible. His seed was running down her thighs and she felt a sort of pride knowing that her husband would start a war to win her back, overthrow a King to be with her – kill his only living relative to protect her. She loved him and there was no doubt that he loved her.

“Let’s go home.” She smiled taking his hand and moving toward the door. He didn’t budge so she turned her head to look at him.

Sandor’s eyes flashed below his waist and hers followed.  _ ‘Oh gods!’ _

I wasn’t easy to miss his manhood, standing at, what she assumed to be, full attention. It made her feel good to know he desired her so much, made her nipples harden at the thought of feeling him inside her again. Sansa fought back the blush she knew would slowly find its way to the surface and put her arms around his neck kissing him.

“Not here.” He whispered into her ear, motioning a hand toward the room, highlighting the carnage that had taken place there. It was only now that she realized there was blood all over the room, this dead brother’s huge corpse almost in the middle. Turning back to Sandor she nodded, then thinking fast, quickly pulled him into a side room. She had known this to be the Queen’s chambers, though she had not seen them herself.

Upon entering the room Sansa smiled, knowing it would be perfect. There was a large fountain in the middle of the room, large enough for them to wash off. Around this fountain a series of pillows and lounges, probably for hot afternoons when it wasn’t a good temperature to go outside. She didn’t even have to look at her husband to know what they would do next. They both made for the water, stripping off their filthy clothing and washing the blood, sweat and any other bodily fluids from themselves.

Now that she looked at him, smiling and content as he rubbed the war paint from his body and scrubbed the blood of his fallen enemies from his chest, Sandor was an attractive man. He had a mischievous little grin that made his face light up, it made her want to kiss him all over. If that hadn’t been enough to woo her to his side, his body certainly would have been.

Sansa smirked at the thought,  _ ‘I get to have this any time I want.’ _ Her friends had been married off to lords who were not fighters more into drinking and feasting. Sandor’s body was one born for action, perfection chiseled into the form of a man. The hair that covered his body was so unapologetically masculine, she didn’t know if she could ever stop the flood of desire that rushed to the apex of her thighs. 

Scooping her up and taking her to one of the lounge areas, Sandor placed her on her back on the ground kissing her with such affection, that Sansa felt a song should clearly be written about it. They kissed again and again, Sansa relishing the feeling of his wiry chest hair rubbing against her breasts. She loved the difference in their bodies, his large, hairy and manly – hers soft and smooth. There was a beauty in the two coming together, one giving the other something so different.

Sandor kissed down her body, ending up in the place they had left off before this whole situation had begun. Smiling at her from between her legs, he began to kiss and lick her there. This time Sansa didn’t protest, nor did she try to stop him from what he wanted to do. She laid back and enjoyed it. He was eliciting feelings she didn’t know she had. With the swipes of his tongue and the bristling of his beard on her legs he was making her throw her head back in pleasure. There was nothing else in the world that mattered anymore, not one bit. They were together, and they had a bond – one forged in love, not duty.

It wasn’t hard to see, as he swapped places with her motioning she straddle him, guiding her easily onto his ready manhood, that he loved her. “Now squeeze me between those thighs like you would your horse.” He teased, bucking her slightly with his hips, eliciting a smile from her.

Being sure to only place a hand on his left shoulder, Sansa pressed him tightly between her legs and began to ride him. He was watching her like a man on fire, like a man who wanted nothing more than to make her happy. In her dreams as a child, she had always hoped for this – for a knight to come and whisk her away from her home and show her something new and exciting – to look at her the way Sandor was looking at her now. Her short time in King’s Landing had taught her that was much more the exception than the rule and she’d be damned if she didn’t do all that she could to keep him smiling and happy. They would rule the West together and through them, they would do all that they could to bring peace and prosperity. It was not only her duty as a Lady and his wife, but it was also her desire. Leaning over him, Sansa did her best to fight back a tear as she kissed him. There was nothing that would please her more than to honor her promise to him and in doing so fulfill a love that would be written about for generations to come.


	14. Epilogue: To Honor Her Father, To Rule a Kingdom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shed some happy tears writing this one. We had to see how the story ended and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.
> 
> Thanks for all your support and the love for this story! Sandor in a kilt was what we all needed!!!

#  Epilogue:  To Honor Her Father, To Rule a Kingdom

##  **Sandor**

 

**20 years later…**

 

A cool rain had begun to fall in the training yard as Sandor watched his twins cross swords.  They had just turned nineteen, and they were already monsters of men. Without a doubt they were already  bigger than Sandor, broader and taller than he could have ever been in his prime. Alastor was dark haired, with blue eyes as clear as his mother’s. He was thoughtful and calculating -- a good tactician with a knack for leadership. Clearly his mother’s child. Eddard on the other hand, brandished the beginnings of a ginger beard with the hair to match it. Daring and impulsive, he took his enemies off guard, capitalized on weakness and knew when to strike. A boy after Sandor’s own heart. They had grown up in relative peace on Westeros, their grandfather was a good and just King and though there was no war on the island, there was the occasional need to keep the Iron Born at bay. Sandor marveled at their skills. They had returned form Essos, where Sandor had sent them off to fight for real -- to learn the truth about war and keep a broader perspective on the world. They had come back bigger, better and stronger than ever. 

 

His youngest son Mikkel was with them too. At just thirteen the boy showed promise as a fighter. Smaller than his older twin brothers, he was quick, agile and strong. Their middle child, Brendon, was the bookish type. More apt to read in his mother’s study than to brave the rain and the mud for the sake of sport and training. Sansa had insisted they send him to the Citadel where he could meet other young men of his kind, and Sandor had little issue with it. No Clegane had ever become a Maester before, and he hoped his fifteen year old would find his way in the world. Perhaps he had grown soft in his old age, or perhaps he had just gained a wisdom and perspective that came by having a capable woman by his side. They had ruled the West together, consolidated power and brought peace and prosperity to his lands. He had fulfilled the prophecy and with it had reaped the benefits of a life much longer and happier than he could have ever dreamed of.

 

A raven flew over head, making its way to the rookerie. “Dark wings, dark words.” Sandor mumbled to himself in the common tongue. 

 

It was not a saying they had in the Western tongue, and he was happy to keep it that way. He hated ravens and the words they carried with them -- he knew what this one would carry. Nodding to the boys to continue, Sandor turned slowly making his way toward the castle. Sandor made sure not to rush to her side. Sansa would need a little time to read the words on the parchment, to understand them and then to do something. To intrude on her too quickly would be to interrupt her train of thought, and he didn’t want that -- not in this tender moment. 

 

There was something else in the mix as well, Sandor smiled at the thought of his baby girl. For so many years they had wanted a girl, surly for as long as Sandor could remember. The twins had been a auspicious birth, only a wolf could bring enough pups into the world for each teet -- and Sansa had. She had been young then, not any older than the twins were now when she bore them. Their two other sons came after that and while all had said the gods had blessed them with four healthy boys ot carry Sandor’s name, they were not satisfied. So they defied the warnings of the Maester and tried again. There had been a pang of male pride in Sandor’s chest to have impregnated her so quickly -- to show his sons he was still virile in his older age. But there was something more to it. Alastor and Eddard had returned from Essos with negative views on women, focusing on their weakness and not on the strength they could bring -- it was not the Western way and Sandor had seen fit to correct it. 

 

When their mother had gone into labor, Sandor had insisted the boys attend. It was tradition of course that the family be there to share the moment life was brought into their home -- but Sandor had wanted them to see the strength a woman had in her. It had all gone to plan and Sandor’s heart had swelled with pride as the twins each took a hand of their still very beautiful lady mother and encouraged her to push. He could see the surprise, shock and fear in their eyes as she struggled in child bed. The birth was long, much longer than the others and it had made Sandor nervous. The child had been turned the wrong way, facing toward the sky, and it had taken time for the Maester and Brendon to help right it. She had lost a lot of blood in this time and Sandor had feared she would die in child bed -- a death he would have never forgiven himself for. It was with one final push and the most intense scream he had ever heard escape her lips that she brought their fifth child into the world at nearly forty years of age. 

 

The little thing came into the world screaming as well, strong and healthy. Sandor had scooped it up quickly and held the child so Sansa could see the sex from afar.

 

“Lyanna.” She had said with a satisfied smile, sweat still on her brow. 

 

The little thing was a fighter, Sandor could sense it -- and she would have to be with the brother’s she had. The boys crowded around to catch a glimpse of their new baby sister and all Sandor could do was shed tears of happiness, not caring who saw or what they would think. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined his life to be so full of joy and happiness, love and affection. Things soldiers didn’t think about -- or care about if he could be honest. His family had come together, and with this raven Sandor feared they would have to come together with an all too different reason.

 

Without knocking Sandor opened the door to the rooms he shared with Sansa. His daughter asleep in her crib and Sansa sitting near the fire, a handkerchief to her eyes. Handing him the paper, Sandor read it though -- though he didn’t need to, he knew what would be there.

 

“What will we do?” He asked her, trying to see what kind of a state she was in.

 

“We’ll go to him. It’s the only thing we can do.” The steadiness of her words belied the mix of feelings Sandor was sure she had. 

 

Her father had gone to the North to die. It would be his final days and she would never forgive herself if she stayed here and missed a chance to see him again.

 

“And Lyanna?” Sandor was more asking about Sansa than their two week old daughter. The babe was strong and could make the journey -- Sansa’s recovery had been longer and more delicate than before and he worried she might make matters worse riding to the North.

 

Standing up she kissed Sandor softly, a loving kiss he knew so very well. “We’ll ride with the boys and an escort tomorrow, if you agree?”

 

Sandor could not deny her this, though he worried about her. Nodding only, they embraced and he could feel her little body heave in sadness over the looming death of her father. Sandor respected the man and they had spent more years fighting on the same side than they had against one another -- so he could not hold a grudge. But Sandor knew what his death would mean and his chest clenched at the thought.

 

They rode the next day, as she had desired. The whole family and a hefty escort in tow. It was relieving the see the Northern Lords had already gathered at Winterfell to pay their dues and show their respects. Sandor stood tall in the back of the room while his children spoke in whispers with their dying grandfather, the King of the Seven Kingdoms, King Eddard the Peace Bringer he would be known as. Though he had spent many years at war, he had also brought many many more years of stability to the island -- Sandor nodded solemnly as he thought of this watching Sansa introduce their baby girl to her granddad. There was something about death that made Sandor want another child -- perhaps it was a confirmation that all we really leave behind are our children and nothing more. 

 

Peering around the room he could see that Eddard and the young warrior maid of Bear Island were sneakily holding hands in the back corner. She was a fine choice of woman -- perhaps one of the few that could keep his son inline. There would hopefully be a wedding in the spring, even if those two thought they were keeping their affections secret.

 

Later that night, when the King did breath his last Sandor found a sense of sorrow. In the true Northern fashion the Lords grieved a moment, then turned and began to kneel in his direction. Handing Lyanna to Brendon, Sandorm motioned Sansa come to his side. He would have done anything to keep her tears from coming, to take away the anguish she felt -- but as he had learned from her over the years, now was not the time. She made her way to him and started to kneel. 

 

Sandor put up his hand, “After all these years I should be kneeling to you.” A soft smile crossed his lips as she blushed a light crimson at his words. “Now come, stand by my side.”

 

She took his hand and held it tight, a sign of affection in the West that must have been odd to the kneeling Northern Lords. He would be King now, the lines of succession clear -- Sansa his Queen and confidant. 

 

“Rise, we have little time.” She said, squeezing his hand for moral support. 

 

“Eddard, stay here and help you Aunt Arya secure the North.” Sandor smiled at her orders, clearly Sansa had noticed the same thing he had. Eddard smiled slightly -- knowing he would now be close to the woman he was courting.

 

“Alastor, go back to the West and raise our armies. If a region of Westeros is to rebel, they will be the first and best poised to suppress it.” Alastor nodded at his mother’s words.

 

“My love.” She turned to Sandor, “Take Brendon and Mikkel and ride for King’s Landing. There will be much to do there. Be careful.” Sandor nodded, knowing what she meant. Political battles were often worse than physical ones. But he was confident he could keep the kingdom from crumbling before she came to him.

 

“And what of you?” He asked. 

 

“I will ride to Highgarden. They are the most likely to defect. I will offer them a marriage, they have a daughter about Alastor’s age.”

 

“But mother!” Alastor protested.

 

“I will hear none of it.” She said in the tone of the wolf. Sandor raised an eyebrow at his son as if to tell him to heed his mother, there would be no contradiction of her from either him or Sandor this day. It was nothing short of comical to see Sansa put a nearly seven foot man in his place with a mere six words. But that was the blood of the wolf and Sandor loved it. 

 

“I have met her once, and this Highgarden maid is kind and gentle. I promise I would not make a match if I did not think you would be happy.” Sansa continued, softening the blow though her son still had a face of protest.

 

She squeezed Sandor’s hand, obviously remembering the first time she came to the West. Sandor squeezed her hand back, the looked upon those times with such affection that it was hard to not smile despite their reason for gathering.  Once all were in agreement they began to ready themselves.

 

Sandor kissed his wife goodbye. “Be careful, you carry my whole world with you.” He looked down at the baby girl, who would grow up doted on not just by him, but her four formidable brothers.

 

“I won’t be long. Then we will both be by your side once more.” They kissed again, then she rode off toward Highgarden -- a small escort with her.

 

There was much work to be done. But they would honor her father’s wishes, they would continue to rule the kingdom. They would bring peace and prosperity to this land for many generations to come.


End file.
